THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

IN  MEMORY  OP 

James  J.  McBride 

PRESENTED  BY 

Margaret  McBride 


I  further  sez,  Be  you  the  covethat  hove  a  rock  at  me?^ 


BY 


BURGES    JOHNSON 

ILLUSTRATED 


HARPER  &  BROTHERS 
NEW  YORK  AND  LONDON 
M  -  C  -  M  -  X  -  I 


COPYRIGHT.   1911.    BY   HARPER   ft   BROTHERS 


PRINTED   IN   THE   UNITED    STATES    OF   AMERICA 
PUBLISHED   NOVEMBER.    1011 


PS 
3S 

J  C  M> 


CONTENTS 


PREFACE    i 

APOLOGY   i 

THE  BASHFUL  MAN        3 

BALLADS  OF  THE  SEA 

THE  WRECK  OF  THE  "JUDY  M."    ....  9 

THE  OLD  MARINE 17 

MAROONED 20 

THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  CLAMOPLANE  ....  26 

A  SONG  OF  THE  YANKEE 34 

BALLADS  OF  BEASTS 

A  LLYRIC  OF  THE  LLAMA       41 

A  QUAINT  PROPOSITION 42 

A  POLLYWOGISM 43 

THE  LAUGHING  HYENA       45 

A  TALE  WITH  A  MORAL 47 

ALACK,  A  YAK!       49 

REMARKS  FROM  THE  PUP 51 


CONTENTS 

PAGB 

A  RONDEAU  OF  REMORSE 53 

THE  GNU  WOOING 54 

THE  FIRESIDE  ELEPHANT 57 

To  A  PIG 59 

THE  GLAD  YOUNG  CHAMOIS 61 

A  LOVE  MATCH 62 

CONCERNING  THE  SLOWNESS  OF  THE  SLOTH  64 

BOOKISH  BALLADS 

THE  MODERN  BOOK  AD 69 

TASTE  FOR  LITERATURE 72 

RECIPE  FOR  POEMS 74 

A  MAGAZINE  POEM 76 

GNATS       77 

AGAINST    RAISING    THE    POSTAL    RATE    ON 

MAGAZINES 79 

OLDE  ENGLISH  BALLAD 81 

BACHELOR  BALLADS 

THE  LITTLE  YANKEE  COLLEGE 85 

THE  BOARDING-HOUSE 87 

A  POET'S  FIRST  EFFORT 89 

IN  EDEN 92 

A  COQUETTE 94 

A  MEMENTO 95 

[   iv  J 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

FAR  BETTER 97 

A  BASHFUL  VALENTINE       98 

YE  TRUE-HEARTED  SWAINE 100 

WITH  A  Box  OF  CANDY 103 

A  TOAST  TO  CLAUDINE       104 

THE  BRIDGE 106 

THE  CULT  OF  THE  POPPYCOCK 107 

THE  PASSING  OF  THE  AUTO-CRAT    ....  no 

THE  COMING  AMERICAN 112 

BALLADS  OF  A  HOUSEHOLDER 

BE  IT  EVER  So  HUMBLE 115 

FOOD  RHAPSODY 117 

THE  CAVIRABBIOBSTER 120 

SPRING  DOG-ERAL 123 

A  BUNGLE-ODE       124 

THE  OVER-DOING  OF  IT 127 

MR.  PITT'S  HOUSEHOLD  DISCOVERY     .    .    .  129 

YE  MORAL  TALE  OF  YE  PHYSICAL  CULTURYST  135 

ELEGY  IN  A  CITY  BACKYARD       141 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

I  FURTHER  SEZ,  "BE  YOU  THE  COVE  THET 

HOVE  A  ROCK  AT  ME  ?"  ....  Frontispiece 

AND  HARSH  WAS  THE  MIRTHLESS  LAUGH 

HE  LAUGHED Facing  p.  IO 

"NEXT  THING  i  KNEW  'TWAS  A  CHIMBLEY 

BRICK" "  30 

AND  LYFT  HYS  SMALL  ST.  BERNARD  PUPPE 

AND  CARRIE  HYM  ABOUT  ....  "  136 


PREFACE 

As  is  well  known  among  etymologists,  or  will  be 
shortly  after  the  appearance  of  this  book,  the  word 
bashful  is  of  uncertain  derivation.  The  secondary, 
or  common,  use  arises  undoubtedly  from  the  word's 
similarity  to  the  root  bash,  v.  i. — to  be  ashamed. 
In  its  primary  meaning,  however,  it  is  undoubtedly 
from  the  Danish  baske — blow,  strike,  drub;  Swedish 
bas — beating;  hence  bash — to  beat  successively  as  on 
a  drum:  "He  might  soe  well  bashe  uponne  a  torn 
torn  untyl  domesdaye" — Sweetzer,  An  Olde  ffyve's 
Tayle.  Hence,  bashful  properly  comes  to  mean 
full  of  rhythmic  noise.  There  seems  to  be  little 
ground  for  the  contention,  Wittimore  in  his  Word 
Parentage  to  the  contrary,  that  our  adjective  bashful 

IW 


derives  from  the  Welsh  bash,  still  current  among  the 
coal-miners,  signify  ing  full  of  rubbish. 

For  the  rhymes  in  this  book,  almost  without  ex 
ception,  the  author  is  alone  responsible.  In  justice 
to  himself,  however,  he  wishes  to  state  that  in  pre 
paring  "A  Bungle  Ode"  he  was  abetted  by  Mrs. 
Howard  Kingsbury;  that  Mrs.  Felicia  Hemans 
collaborated  on  "The  Boarding-house";  and  that 
responsibility  for  "An  Elegy  in  a  City  Backyard" 
rests  equally  upon  the  late  Thomas  Gray,  Gelett 
Burgess,  and  himself. 

A  few  of  the  verses  herein  relating  to  natural 
history  previously  appeared  in  a  volume  entitled 
"Beastly  Rhymes,"  now  out  of  print.  Others  first 
appeared  in  Everybody's  Magazine,  Good  House 
keeping,  Life,  Harper's  Weekly,  and  Harper's 
Magazine,  and  grateful  acknowledgment  is  due  these 
periodicals  for  permission  to  reprint. 


BASHFUL  BALLADS 


APOLOGY 

I'd  rather  do  rhymes  of  a  morning  betimes 
Than  anything  else  on  the  gamut  of  crimes. 
Discursing  with  versing  began  with  my  nursing, 
And  chasing  a  metrical  thought  as  it  climbs 
Is  sweet,  I  repeat — why,  e'en  as  I  eat 
The  chewing  I'm  doing  quite  lyric'ly  chimes. 
Alas,  what  a  pass!     My  head's  a  morass 
Of  singular  jingular  meters  en  masse. 

Nor  do  they  retreat  at  the  noise  of  the  street, 
But   tread   through  my  head   to   the    beat   of  my 

feet, 

The  while  each  particular  ruption  auricular 
(Jars  of  the  cars,  or  a  hubbub  vehicular) 
Falls  into  line,  as  though  by  design, 
To  act  as  a  dactyl  or  trochee  of  mine. 
Ah  me,  you  can  see  by  the  force  of  my  plea, 
How  troublesome  bubblesome  meter  may  be. 
[i] 


One  hint  is  enough  for  some  stuff  in  the  rough, 
And  I  promptly  advert  to  my  shirt-sleeve  or  cuff; 
A  word  I  have  heard  that  is  odd,  or  a  name 
That's  odder,  is  fodder  for  feeding  the  flame. 
Also  the  vernacular  adds  a  spectacular 
Shine  to  a  line  that  were  otherwise  tame. 
This  shows,  I  suppose,  as  far  as  it  goes, 
A  skill  with  the  quill  quite  unsuited  to  prose. 

And  so,  when  I'm  hit  by  a  rhythmical  fit, 

I  rhyme  against  time,  and  I  don't,  I  admit, 

Disturb  with  a  curb  any  verbular  bit, 

But  build  up  upon  it  a  sonnet  or  skit. 

I  never  expect  its  course  to  direct, 

But  let  it  express  its  excesses  unchecked. 

'Tis  better  than  drinking,  to  my  way  of  thinking, 

For  others,  not  I,  must  endure  the  effect. 

Pray  pardon  this  praise  of  my  ways,  but  for  days 
I've  itched  to  be  rich  in  reward  for  my  lays, 
And  maybe  I  might,  so  well  I  indite, 
If  only  I  had  some  ideas  when  I  write. 
[2] 


THE   BASHFUL   MAN 

As  I  were  standin'  on  the  sand  a-watchin'  of  the 

brine, 

A  hefty  pebble  hit  me  in  the  middle  of  my  spine; 
And  thar  behind  a  dory  pintin'  nor-nor'west  by  south 
I  found  a  blushin'  feller  with  his  finger  in  his  mouth. 

Sez  I,  "Be  you  a-hidin'    here    from    accident   er 

choice  ?" 
An'  I  shook  him  by  the  riggin'  jest  to  loosen  up 

his  voice. 
I  further  sez,  "Be  you  the  cove  thet  hove  a  rock 

at  me  ?" 
He  hemmed  an'  hawed  awhile,  an'  chawed  his  nail, 

an'  sez,  sez  he: 

"I'm   a  werry,  werry  bashful  man,  as  one  might 

truly  say; 
I  git  embarrassed  orful  when  a  stranger  looks  my  way. 


So  when  I  long  fer  doin's  with  my  feller  human 

kind, 
I'm  much  too  shy  to  meet  their  eye,  but  soak  'em 

from  behind. 

"It's  werry  hard  on  me,  indeed,  to  hev  sich  shrinkin' 
ways, — 

I've  hed  a  bent  fer  argyment  through  all  my  live 
long  days. 

But  when  I  think  thet  folks  is  wrong  in  anything 
they  claim, 

I  tell  'em  so  on  postal  cards  an'  never  sign  my 
name. 

"I  allers   act  on   impulse,  an'  I   love   a    lynchin' 

job; 
But   I'm   so   shy   I   allers   try   to   mingle    in    the 

mob; 
The  thought  of  offerin'  to  treat  jest  scares  me  to 

the  bone, 
So,  though  I'm  friendly  as  kin  be,  I  allers  drink 

alone. 

[4] 


"So  now,"  sez  he,  "I'm  sure  you'll  see,  from  knowin' 

of  my  mind, 
'Twas  in  a  shyly  playful  way  I  lammed  you  from 

behind." 
"I  bear  no  grudge  at  all,"  sez  I,  "your  tale  is 

werry  rum; 
Your  skin  is  much  too  thin,"  I  sez,  "it  should  be 

toughened  some." 

I  tanned  him  with  a  dory  thwart,  I  rubbed  him 

in  the  sand, 

I  propped  him  up  agin  an  oar,  it  tired  him  so  to  stand. 
I  chucked  him  neatly  in  the  wet,  I  dried  him  in  the 

sun; 
Sez  I,  "I'm  sure  'twill  be  a  cure,  you'll  thank  me 

when  I'm  done." 

We  meet  no  more  along  the  shore  upon  my  daily  stroll; 
I  like  ter  think  I've  ben  a  help  to  one  pore  mortal  soul. 
I  sort  of  guess  I  cured  him — er  else  I  recken  he 
Is  so  werry,   werry   bashful   thet  he   keeps   away 
from  me. 

[5] 


BALLADS  OF   THE  SEA 


THE  WRECK  OF   THE  JUDT   B. 

A   STORY   OF    LONG   ISLAND    SOUND 

The  air  was  full  of  stinging  brine 

And  the  east  wind  hurtled  free, 
When  the  tugboat  captain  cast  a  line 

To  the  deck  of  the  Judy  B. 
And  the  tugboat  captain's  brow  was  dark, 

And  he  cursed  beneath  his  breath 
The  owner's  greed  that  would  give  no  heed 

To  a  sailor's  fight  with  death. 

But  the  barge's  skipper  came  abaft 

On  the  deck  of  the  Judy  B., 
And  harsh  was  the  mirthless  laugh  he  laughed, 

For  an  untaught  man  was  he; 
"I'll  no  be  towed  in  a  sturm  like  this, 

And  I'll  no  cast  loose,  the  day!" 
And  he  shook  his  fist  through  the  briny  mist 

And  spat  in  the  angry  bay. 

[9] 


The  barge's  skipper's  daughter  Nan 

Stood  close  abaft  of  him, 
While  the  barge's  skipper's  daughter's  man 

Hove  by  with  visage  grim. 
And  the  b.s.d.m.'s  faithful  dog 

Stood  steady  at  the  rail, 
Though  a  scared  chagrin  reflected  in 

B.s.d.m.d.'s  tail. 

But  the  tugboat  captain  clenched  his  hand. 

"Come!    Make  the  tow-line  tight! 
For  the  owner  says  your  load  of  sand 

Must  leave  Cow  Bay  this  night. 
And  blow  the  wind  howe'er  she  will, 

Though  hurricanes  hold  sway, 
Though  we  all  be  drowned  in  the  seething  Sound, 

This  night  we're  on  our  way!" 

Manhasset's  lights  are  far  astern, 

The  seething  Sound  is  near; 
The  storm  has  set  the  bay  achurn, 

While  the  wind  sings  dirges  drear. 
[10] 


AND    HARSH    WAS    THE    MIRTHLESS    LAUGH    HE 
LAUGHED 


And  the  barge's  skipper  spake  an  oath — 

For  a  profane  man  was  he — 
"Our  board's  awash,  and  I  swear  b'gosh 

We  can  no  wi'stand  yon  sea!" 

The  Great  Neck  shore  is  full  abeam, 

And  the  waves  roll  deck-house  high, 
When  the  skipper  cried,  "We've  sprung  a  seam!" — 

Wild  fear  was  in  his  eye. 
Quoth  the  barge's  skipper's  daughter's  man — 

Forsooth  a  silent  lout — 
"I  reckon  we  can't  ship  no  sea 

Until  some  sand  runs  out! 

"Fer  there  ain't  no  space  on  this  here  scow 

As  big  nor  a  inseck's  hand, 
Nor  there  ain't  a  inch  of  her  hold,  I  vow, 

What  ain't  filled  tight  with  sand." 
But  the  barge's  skipper's  daughter  paused, 

As  she  wound  her  clothes-line  up. 
And  she  muttered  "Hark!" — 'twas  a  warning  bark 

From  the  barge-etcetera's  pup. 
[13] 


Forrard  they  crept  to  where  the  hound 

Stood  faithful  to  his  trust, 
And  the  skipper  shrieked,  when  the  truth  he  found: 

"St.  Mike!    The  rope  has  bust!" 
Ah  me,  what  a  fearful  plight  was  theirs — 

Adrift  in  a  roaring  sea, 
Off  a  rocky  shore  with  a  crew  of  four 

On  the  sand-barge  Judy  B. 

A-through  the  seething  Sound  they  swept, 

Past  many  a  villa'd  shore, 
But  what  saw  they  of  those  lawns  well  kept — 

They  heard  but  the  breakers'  roar! 
And  the  barge's  skipper  bit  his  nails 

(Small  culture  did  he  boast), 
For  he  knew  their  fate  if  they  struck  Hell  Gate 

Or  the  jagged  Steinway  coast. 

But  the  skipper's  maid  was  keen  of  sight, 
And  she  peered  through  the  heavy  gloom; 

"Oh,  feyther,  what  is  yon  moving  light, 
And  the  sound  of  that  distant  boom  ?" 


"Tis  the  boom  o'  the  surf  in  Flushing  Bay — 
Thank  God,  we  are  out  of  reach — 

And  the  lights  afar  be  a  trolley-car 
A-makin'  toward  old  North  Beach." 

But  once  again  the  faithful  hound 

Barked  shrill — there  came  a  shock! — 
And  their  bottom  timbers  crunched  and  ground 

On  the  point  of  a  sunken  rock. 
As  hour-glass  sands  go  sucking  down, 

So  their  sand  seeks  the  sea — 
Their  cargo  streams  through  the  rending  seams 

In  the  hold  of  the  Judy  B. 

The  barge's  skipper's  daughter's  spouse 

(A  silent  soul,  and  grim) 
Clumb  up  to  the  roof  of  the  frail  deck-house 

And  took  his  dog  with  him. 
Said  he,  "The  tide  is  ebbin'  fast, 

And  I'll  stay  by  the  scow; 
Our  load  of  sand's  gone  through  her,  and 

She's  settin'  on  it  now." 
[15] 


The  skipper  had  seized  the  deck-house  door 

To  use  it  for  a  raft, 
When  the  Judy  B.  she  plunged  no  more, 

But  lay  like  an  anchored  craft. 
So  he  calmed  his  nerves,  and  with  daughter  Nan 

He  dumb  on  the  deck-house  too, 
And  there  they  stayed  till  the  storm  was  laid 

And  the  morning  sun  shone  through. 

On  a  sort  of  a  sand-pile  Ararat 

Their  ark  was  firm  aground; 
And  the  skipper  cried:    "We've  here  begat 

An  island  in  the  Sound. 
And  we'll  raise  our  flag  and  we'll  live  right  here, 

The  boundin'  waves  amid, 
Till  the  city's  paid  for  the  land  we've  made; 

Then  we'll  buy  a  farm,"  which  they  did. 


THE  OLD  MARINE 

"Yes,  I  were  once  a  marine,"  said  he, 

"An'  a  most  remarkable  one. 
An'  you've  little  idee,  from  the  looks  of  me, 

Of  the  bravery  deeds  I  done. 

"But  I  stirred  up  sort  of  a  jealous  rage 

In  the  buzzums  of  all  the  rest, 
Till  I  had  ter  resign  fer  the  good  of  the  line, 

As  the  admiral  thought  were  best." 

"But  it  isn't  an  admiral's  job,"  said  I, 

"To  tell  a  marine  to  skid!" 
He  started  slightly  and  answered  politely, 

"This  kind  of  an  admiral  did. 

"And  you've  no  idee  of  the  things,"  he  said, 

"I  seen  in  my  long  campaign, 
From  Mindaneeo  to  Chiny  and  Rio 

And  all  through  the  swamps  of  Spain." 


"There  ain't  any  swamps  in  Spain,"  said  I. 

He  answered  in  tone  serene, 
"Hev  I  got  ter  explain  there's  mor'n  one  Spain, 

An'  there's  swamps  in  the  one  I  mean  ? 

"  But  speakin'  o'  swamps — in  the  Philippines 
The  mud  it  comes  down  in  showers, 

And  you'd  certainly  laugh  ter  see  the  giraffe 
I  rode  fer  his  wadin'  powers." 

"Giraffes  in  the  Philippines?"  I  cried — 

Perhaps  I  was  too  abrupt, 

For  he  sorrowfully  sighed  and  at  length  replied; 

"A  gent  doesn't  interrupt. 

"But  speakin'  of  beasts — in  the  'Stralian  bush 

Is  a  thing  called  a  Patty  plus; 
One-half  of  it's  bird,  an'  the  rest — my  word! — 

Looks  terrible  much  like  us. 

"It  can  throw  a  stick  called  a  rangaboom 

With  sech  a  peeculiar  swing 
That  the  thing  it  hits  has  curious  fits 

And  runs  around  in  a  ring. 
[18] 


"But  speakin'  of  runnin'  around,"  said  he, 
"When  you  come  to  the  isle  of  Guam, 

The  women  you  meet  ain't  got  any  feet, 
And  yet  they  is  brave  an'  calm. 

"An'  my  buzzum  bleeds  fer  their  helpless  state, 

Fer  none  of  'em  ever  begs, 
So  I  asks  your  aid  fer  a  fund  I've  made 

Fer  buyin'  'em  wooden  legs." 

"But  I  am  a  native  of  Guam,"  I  said, 
And  he  growled,  as  he  shuffled  by, 

"I've  wasted  enough  of  expensive  guff 
On  such  a  cheap  sort  of  a  guy." 


MAROONED 

A  BALLAD  OF  THE  BRAGGART  CAPTAINS 

As  I  was  riding  along  the  shore 
I  came  to  the  town  of  Battledore, 
Whose  turbulent  coast  of  sand  and  rock 
Encircles  the  Bay  of  Shuttlecock. 

Hard  by  the  church  where  the  road  dips  down 
To  the  ancient  wharves  of  the  little  town, 
I  came  on  a  group  of  grizzled  tars 
A-gazing  through  old  binoculars. 

"Avast!"  I  cried  (I  was  ever  fain 
To  meet  with  men  on  a  common  plane). 
"Is  a  boat  ahoy  that  is  heaving  nigh, — 
Or  what  is  the  reason  you  pipe  your  eye  ?" 

They  turned  at  that,  and  they  looked  me  o'er, 
Those  silent  sea-dogs  of  Battledore: 

[20] 


Said  one  to  another,  "I  reckon  that 

He  wants  ter  know  what  we're  lookin'  at." 

They  whispered  a  moment,  with  nod  and  frown, 
Till  one  of  them  turned  and  remarked:  "Set  down! 
Yer  a  stranger  here  and  yer  mind  don't  splice 
Ter  no  sort  of  local  prejudice, 

"And  we'd  like  ter  larn  how  ye  look  upon 
The  deed  we  hev  recently  ben  and  done." 
"Belay,"  I  answered.     "Your  yarn  unfold!" 
And  this  is  the  tale  that  their  spokesman  told. 

"Cap'n  Reub  Pearce  of  Battledore 

Lived  man  an'  boy  on  this  very  shore; 

A  peaceable  man — when  his  hands  was  tied — 

But  freighted  a  bit  too  much  with  pride. 

"Just  over  the  street,  not  fur  away, 
Old  Cap'n  Fish's  anchorage  lay. 
The  ca'mest  moorin's  ye  ever  see, 
This  town  of  Battledore  uster  be, — 

[21] 


"Thar  never  was  anchor-draggin'  gales 
Ter  start  us  stovin'  each  other's  rails 
(Except  fer  sech  leetle  squalls  as  come 
As  a  matter  of  course  in  a  man's  own  hum), 

"Till  Cap'n  Fish  and  his  neighbor  Pearce 
Got  started  squabblin'  suthin'  fierce. 
They  each  was  able  an'  peart  an'  fit, 
An'  I  reckon  jealousy  started  it. 

"But  we  got  so  sick  of  their  daily  howl, 
An'  their  lengthy  yarns  an'  their  cry  in'  foul, 
We  formed  a  committee  on  ways  an'  means 
Fer  pintin'  their  bows  to  some  other  scenes. 

"Now,  Pearce  was  strong  on  a  distance  swim,- 
Er  so  we  all  of  us  larnt  from  him! 
But  Fish  he  vummed  he  could  set  th'  pace 
Fer  Reuben  Pearce  in  a  swimmin'-race. 

"Last  Sunday  noon  when  we  all  was  hum, 
Waitin'  fer  dinner-time  to  come, 

[22] 


Old  Cap'n  Fish  clumb  over  the  rocks, 
Drippin'  wet  in  his  pants  an'  socks. 

"An'  he  vowed  he'd  swum  in  a  bee-line  track 
Clear  out  ter  th'  Four-Mile  Shoal  an'  back. 
Th'  Four-Mile  Shoal,  y'  must  understand, 
'S  an  island  with  nawthin'  aboard  but  sand. 

"We  was  all  polite,  an'  we  sorter  tried 
Ter  keep  from  sayin'  we  thought  he  lied. 
But  Pearce  piped  up,  an'  he  sez,  sez  he, 
'  Did  yer  leave  a  record  thet  folks  could  see  ?' 

"'You  bet!'  sez  Fish, — 'With  this  very  hand 
I  wrote  my  initials  on  th'  sand.' 
Then  he  turned  away,  kinder  dignified, 
And  hurried  hum  whar  his  pants  was  dried. 

"Thet  very  night  thar  was  quite  a  group 
A-settin'  around  Cap  Tibbitt's  stoop, 
When  up  come  Pearce,  with  his  shirt  soaked  through, 
An'  he  sez,  sez  he,  'I  hev  swum  thar  too! 
[23] 


"'An'  ef  some  one  doubts,  I  kin  stop  his  gab, 
Fer  I  wrote  "R.  P."  on  a  horseshoe  crab.' 
Then  Fish  sez,  'Huh!'  an'  they  started  in, 
Till  we  all  got  sick  of  them  fellers'  din. 

"Fer  nary  one  of  us  neighbor  folk 
Ever  see  one  of  'em  swim  a  stroke. 
An*  we  decided  thet  fer  a  fact 
The  time  hed  came  when  we'd  got  ter  act. 

"Last  Monday  mornin'  we  took  them  two 
In  a  dory-boat  with  a  chosen  crew, 
An'  we  rowed  'em  out  ter  them  four-mile  sands, 
Whar  we  put  'em  off;    an'  we  shook  thar  hands, 

"An*  we  left  'em  a  pair  of  mutton-chops 
Fer  a  final  meal,  an'  a  few  gum-drops. 
An'  we  bound  ourselves  by  a  solemn  oath 
We'd  none  of  us  rescue  'em,  one  er  both. 

"An' we  sez,  'Now  scrap  till  yer  throats  is  hoarse, 
An'  then  ye  kin  both  swim  home,  of  course.'" 
[24] 


The  spokesman  paused,  and  he  aimed  his  glass 
Out  where  the  stately  vessels  pass. 

Gravely  that  group  of  silent  tars 

Passed  around  the  binoculars. 

And  I  strained  my  eyes,  'neath  a  shading  hand, 

Toward  the  faint  mirage  of  an  isle  of  sand. 

At  length  one  solemnly  shook  his  head — 
"Thar's  six  days  gone,  an'  I  bet  they're  dead!" 
I  looked  at  them,  and  they  looked  to  sea, 
And  then  they  silently  turned  to  me. 

And  I  spake  the  truth  that  my  heart  descried, — 
"It  was  justifiable  homicide." 
Then  I  took  up  my  journey  along  the  shore 
Away  from  the  village  of  Battledore. 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  CLAMOPLANE 

A   BALLAD  OF  COW  BAY 

From  the  outer  end  of  the  village  dock 

We  dandled  our  idle  feet, 
And  the  cap'n  volleyed  some  bits  of  rock 

Far  out  toward  the  pleasure  fleet. 

"There  isn't  a  lugger  behind  them  lights, 
Nor  a  yacht  in  the  whole  dum  bay 

I  couldn't  'a'  bought  if  I'd  hed  my  rights," 
He  said  in  his  artless  way. 

"Yaas,  sir,  by  Gum,  I  am  sayin*  trew— 

If  only  I'd  hed  my  rights 
I  mightn't  of  known  the  likes  of  you, 

From  my  mansion  on  the  heights. 

"I'd  'a'  hed  two  vally  de  shams  er  more, 
An'  a  garidge  painted  green, 
[26] 


An'  an  iron  stag  an'  a  pergalor, 
An'  a  nifty  limoseen." 

He  shifted  his  chaw  to  his  other  tooth, 
While  I  dared  no  word  of  doubt, 

For  I  knew  that  he  frequently  spoke  the  truth, 
And  I  knew  that  the  tale  would  out. 

"'Twas  long  before  I  hed  bought  my  farm," 

The  cap'n  remarked  at  length; 
"I  was  luggin'  clams  amid  storm  an'  carm, 

An'  gaining  my  puppy  strength. 

"I  married  a  wife  thet  was  young  an'  strong, 

A  girl  with  a  might  of  sand, 
An'  she  an'  the  kid  would  come  along 

An'  frequently  lend  a  hand. 

"One  day  we  happened  along  the  shore 
On  a  house-boat  wanderin'  loose, 

An'  I  lifted  a  couple  of  frills  er  more 
Per  the  wife  an'  the  baby's  use. 


"An  awnin'  strung  on  an  iron  rig 

Jest  fitted  my  sun-baked  craft, 
An'  a  chugger  engine  looked  neat  an'  trig, 

So  I  fastened  it  shipshape  aft. 

"An'  there  we  was  with  our  thin  plank  scow 

Fer  cruisin'  around  Cow  Bay, 
But  fitted  up,  as  you  must  allow, 

In  a  most  luxurious  way. 

"I  mind  me  well  of  a  day  that  came — 

It  was  muggy-like  an'  cold. 
But  we'd  planned  fer  a  sort  of  picnic  game, 

'Cause  the  kid  were  five  year  old. 

"An'  we  chugged  away  fer  the  open  Sound, 
Though  the  clouds  was  scuddin'  fast, 

With  little  idee  whar  we  was  bound 
Till  Barker's  Point  was  passed. 

"Then  the  waves  got  high  an'  the  wind  she  rose 
An'  under  our  awnin'  roared, 
[28] 


An'    we    drove    some    nails    through    the    baby's 

clo'es 
To  fasten  her  tight  aboard. 

"The  gale  swooped  down  an'  it  carromed  up 

An'  stiffened  with  every  hour, 
An'  our  awnin'  filled  like  a  shallow  cup 

With  a  terrible  liftin'  power. 

"I  seen  the  chances  if  nothin*  gave, 
An'  I  yelled  to  my  wife,  'Sit  tight!' 

No  sooner  said  than  we  topped  a  wave 
An'  launched  on  our  trial  flight. 

"'Now  out  with  the  forrard  sweep,'  I  screamed, 

'An'  wiggle  it  like  a  tail!' 
An'  we  kept  her  trim  while  the  baby  streamed 

Astern  by  a  single  nail. 

"We  shaved  the  tip  of  the  Sands  Point  Light, 
When  the  wind  took  an  inward  slew, 
[29] 


An'  none  was  nigh  to  observe  the  sight 
As  the  first  of  the  biplanes  flew. 

"Next  thing  I  knew  'twas  a  chimbley  brick 
From  Fred  Green's  house  we  knocks, 

An'  I  yells  to  the  crew,  'Bear  upwards,  quick! 
We're  a  boat!    Keep  off  the  rocks!' 

"We  landed  neat  on  some  private  shore 

Clean  over  by  Oyster  Bay, 
An'  a  man  came  out  of  a  swell  front  door 

A-warnin'  us  all  away. 

"An'  the  next  I  knew  he  was  after  me 

A-grabbin'  me  by  the  throat; 
'Thet  awnin'  rig  an'  the  rest,'  sez  he, 

'Was  stolen  from  my  houseboat!' 

"He  took  no  stock  in  the  deeds  we  did, 

My  pleadin'  was  all  in  vain, 
But  jest  on  account  of  the  wife  an'  kid 

He  let  us  sneak  home  by  train. 
[30] 


"NEXT  THING  i  KNEW  'TWAS  A  CHIMBLEY  BRICK" 


"One  feller  alone  seen  us  ascend, — 
He  was  workin'  at  Sands  Point  Light; 

An'  he  told  a  cousin  who  told  a  friend, 
An'  he  told  Wilbur  Wright." 


A  SONG  OF  THE  YANKEE 

WRITTEN  FOR  THE  SOCIETY  OF  MAYFLOWER  DESCEND 
ANTS  IN  THE  STATE  OF  CONNECTICUT 

We  lay  in  the  Bay  of  Yucatan 

While  the  lighters  took  our  freights: 

We  landed  some  fifty  tons  or  more 

And  the  consignee  came  out  from  shore 

To  worry  each  Indian  stevedore 

Who  handled  his  precious  crates. 

He  stood  on  our  deck  in  his  gay  attire 

And  yelled  as  a  Greaser  does, 

Strange  Spanish  oaths  of  a  lurid  hue, — 

But  he  said  "b'gosh"  when  he'd  gotten  through, 

And  I  knew  him  for  what  he  was. 

A  Yank  from  Maine  or  from  Lake  Champlain, 
Or  maybe  from  Salem,  Mass. 
His  face  was  lean  and  his  wit  was  keen, 
And  his  eye  let  nothing  pass. 
[34] 


In  an  unmade  land  or  a  desert  sand 
'Tis  his  especial  pride 
To  do  odd  jobs  for  Providence 
And  help  himself  on  the  side. 

If  you  chance  to  sail  uncharted  seas, 

An  unknown  shore  to  gain, 

It's  ten  to  one,  when  you  reach  the  land, 

A  naked  native  is  on  the  sand 

With  a  Waltham  timepiece  in  his  hand 

Or  a  sardine  tin  from  Maine. 

And  under  a  spreading  cocoa-tree 

There  stands  a  trader's  tent, 

Where  a  lonely  stranger  is  selling  clocks 

And  Springfield  guns  and  Stamford  locks, 

Jack-knives  and  liniment. 

He's  from  'gansett  Bay  or  Portsmouth  way, 
Or  maybe  New  London,  Conn. 
No  thief  that's  made,  in  any  shade, 
Can  steal  what  his  eye  is  on. 
4  [35] 


He  will  do  to  you  what  you  meant  to  do, 
And  probably  do  you  first, 
But  if  you  are  both  in  a  hole,  you'll  find 
He's  giving  himself  the  worst. 

The  quaint  Korean,  with  slanting  eyes, 

In  his  far-off  heathen  hut, 

Bows  down  to  an  idol  made  of  stone, 

Or  curious  wood,  or  carven  bone — 

Nor  wots  that  his  god  on  its  jeweled  throne 

Was  made  in  Connecticut. 

The  Eskimo  chases  the  slimy  seal 

With  a  Yankee-built  harpoon, 

While  the  child  of  the  Zulu,  unconvert, 

In  a  Dorcas  Society  undershirt, 

Disports  by  some  far  lagoon. 

Oh,  the  Yankee  mind  keeps  close  behind 
The  Pole  hunter's  wildest  hope, 
And  in  Timbuctoo  he  has  marred  the  view 
With  ads.  of  his  shaving  soap. 
[363 


On  the  wildest  land  his  clever  hand 
Has  writ  with  a  patent  pen — 
He  builds  the  schools  and  he  fashions  tools 
For  the  use  of  a  world  of  men. 

The  Yankee  inherits  a  deal  of  craft 

From  his  stern-faced  Pilgrim  sires, 

Who  learned  restraint,  though  they  suffered  much, 

And  dwelt  in  peace  with  the  crabbed  Dutch, 

And  taught  the  wilderness,  at  their  touch, 

To  yield  what  a  man  requires. 

And  the  mission  spirit  will  drive  some  Yanks 

Wherever  a  man  can  roam, 

While  others  with  delicate  skill  design 

Wooden  nutmegs  and  hams  of  pine 

To  sell  to  the  folks  at  home. 

Where  the  cacti  grow  they're  sympatico, — 
Blood-brothers  in  Afghanistan; 
They  treat  a  Jap  like  a  decent  chap  and  skin  their 
own  countryman. 

[37l 


Where  the  world  is  raw  each  lantern-jaw  is  chewing 

it  into  shape: — 
Then  give  God  thanks  that  his  bony  Yanks  are 

scattered  from  cape  to  cape! 


BALLADS   OF  BEASTS 


A  LLYRIC  OF  THE  LLAMA 

Behold  how  from  her  lair  the  youthful  llama 
Llopes  forth  and  llightly  scans  the  llandscape  o'er. 

With  llusty  heart  she  Hooks  upon  llife's  drama, 
Relying  on  her  llate-llearnt  worldly  llore. 

But  llo!  Some  Had,  armed  with  a  yoke  infama 
Soon  llures  her  into  llowly  llabor's  cause; 

Her  wool  is  Hopped  to  weave  into  pajama, 
And  llanguidly  she  llearns  her  Gees  and  Haws. 

My  children,  heed  this  llesson  from  all  languishing 

young  lllamas, 
If  you  would   lllive  with   lllatitude,   avoid   each 

llluring  lllay; 
And  do  not  lllightly  lllleave,  I  beg,  your  llllonesome, 

Hlloving  mammas, 

And  llllast  of  allll,  don't  spelllll  your  name  in 
such  a  silllllly  way. 


A  QUAINT  PROPOSITION 

If  prehistoric  Polypods, 

Prolific,  pallid  pests, 
Now  prowled  and  peered  about  the  place 

Pursuing  human  quests, 
While  Pachyderms'  prehensile  paws 

Poked  out  from  pulpy  nests; 
And  quarry-questing  quadrupeds 

Of  queer  and  qualmy  hues, 
With  quantities  of  quelling  quills, 

For  prey  were  prone  to  choose 
The  quaking,  quailing  populace 

Who  quivered  in  their  shoes — 

If  this  were  true  to-day  I  guess 
You'd  mind  your  P's  and  Q's! 


A  POLLYWOGISM 

The    Pollywog    does    naught    but    play 
And    skip    about   the    livelong    day 
In    a    spontaneous,    hearty   way. 
It   seems   to   matter   not   a   jot 
If  he    be   in   a    school   or   not, 
He   looks   on   toil   as   tommy-rot. 
And    leaps    and    creeps    and    rolls    in    heaps 
And   e'en    is   silly  when   he   sleeps. 


A   staid    demeanor's   sure   to   fail, 

And    dignity's    of  no    avail 

To   one   who's   naught   but   head    and   tail. 
"I    scorn,"    declares    the    Pollywog, 
"Maturity's    dull    decalogue, 
Until    I'm    tailless    and    a    Frog; 

For   me,   you   see,    there    could    not   be 

The   slightest   mite   of  dignity." 
[43] 


Observe   the    Frogs,    well-groomed    and   kempt, 

From    tadpolacious    tails    exempt, 

Who  watch   their   offspring   with   contempt; 
While   those   of  adolescent   age, 
With   tails   in    half-departed    stage, 
In   shame   conceal   each    appendage. 

The   Frogs'   chief  thought,   when   aught   they're 
taught, 

Is,    caudaVd   adults   come   to   naught. 

This   moral    in   italics   set: 

Don't    act,    when    gray    and    old   you    get, 

As  though  your  tail  were  on  you  yet. 

(But  still,  to  some,  these  solemn  Frogs, 

Contemplative,  on  mossy  logs, 

Are  sillier  than  Pollywogs. 
Which  goes  to  show,  as  you  must  know, 
My  moral  really  isn't  so!) 


THE  LAUGHING  HYENA 

The  Laughing  Hyena  meanders  at  night, 

Equipped  with  a  ravenous  appetite. 

He  hasn't  the  will  nor  the  skill  for  to  kill 

His  food  for  himself,  so  he  wanders  until 

A  lion  or  leopard  comes  loping  that  way, 

And  he  follows  behind  till  they  fall  on  their  prey, 

Then  lingers,  a-grin,  near  the  gruesome  arena, 

In  hopes  they  will  share  with  the  Laughing  Hyena. 

He  frequents  the  places  where  lions  foregather — 
And  if  one  so  much  as  remarks  on  the  weather, 
He  cries,  "What  a  hit!"  and  he  laughs  fit  to 

split, 

Till  the  lion  begins  to  believe  he's  a  wit, 
And  gains  such  a  taste  for  applause,  that,  alack, 
He  keeps  the  Hyena  close  by  for  a  claque. 
(I've  met  many  lions  who  claim  that  no  keener 
A  critic  exists  than  the  Laughing  Hyena.) 

[45] 


This  sycophant  habit  obtained  such  a  hold, 

That  once  at  a  funeral  'twas  not  controlled; 

For  he  laughed  and  he  laughed,  and  he  chaffed  the 

giraffe, 

Till  the  relatives  rose  in  the  widow's  behalf, 
And  they  said:   "All  the  funeral  trappings  are  here 
And  we  guess  there  is  room  for  one  more  on  the 

bier!" 

And  every  one  claimed  that  they  seldom  had  seen  a 
More  impromptu  corpse  than  the  Laughing  Hyena. 

My  child,  if  you  find  you  re  acquainted  with  folks 
Who  laugh  very  hard  at  your  silliest  jokes, 
With  a  thin  sort  of  grin  e'en  before  you  begin — 
Be  sure  a  Hyena  lurks  under  their  skin. 
And  if  you  are  wise  you  will  plan  their  demise 
Ere  the  smoke  of  their  incense  has  blinded  your  eyes. 


A  TALE  WITH  A  MORAL 

'Twas  a  gloomy  glade  'mid  the  lowering  shade 

Of  a  forest  dank  and  dark; 
And  every  decent  creature  slept, 
For  the  gray  of  dawn  had  scarcely  crept 

O'er  the  morning  sky.     But  hark! 
Amid  the  silence  there  may  be  heard 
The  drowsy  chirp  of  the  Early  Bird. 

To  the  ground  he  flits,  where  he  lightly  sits, 

Then  hops  with  a  movement  gay. 
"Cheep-cheep,  te-whit!"  and  he  flaps  his  wings; 
"Oh,  I  am  the  Early  Bird,"  he  sings, 

And  also  "Tu-lu-ra-lay!" 
But  though  he  carols  it  through  and  through, 
His  joyful  warble  does  not  ring  true! 

Lo,  a  twig  that  lies  beneath  his  eyes 
Of  a  sudden  appears  to  squirm! 
[47.1 


And  there  comes  from  under  his  very  feet 
A  faint,  fine  sound  that  I  can't  repeat — 

The  voice  of  the  Early  Worm! 
And  the  glade  is  stiller  than  still  can  be 
At  the  thought  of  the  coming  tragedy. 

"It  is  up  to  me,"  sobbed  the  Worm,  "to  flee, 
Were  I  not  such  a  sleepy  thing." 

But  the  Bird  was  wabbly  on  his  feet; 

"I'm  far  too  drowsy,"  he  sighed,  "to  eat!" 
And  his  head  fell  under  his  wing. 

And,  sweetly  mingled,  there  soon  were  heard 

The  snores  of  the  Worm  and  the  Early  Bird. 


ALACK,  A  YAK! 

'Mid  pathless  deserts  I  groan  and  grieve; 
In  weariest  solitudes  I  leave 

My  track; 

Bemoaning  the  fate  that  has  christened  me, 
In  spite  of  my  whiskered  dignity, 

A  Yak! 

O  happy  child  with  the  epithet 
Of  Abe  or  Ike  or  Eliphalet 

Or  Jack, 

You  little  wot  of  the  blush  of  shame 
That  dyes  my  cheek  when  I  hear  the  name 

Of  Yak! 

Better  a  bok  or  a  slithy  sloe, 

Or  a  mythical  beast  in  the  starry  zo- 

Diac, 
4  [49] 


A  polypod  or  a  pelican 
An  auk  or  an  ichthyosaurus,  than 
A  Yak! 

And  so,  through  the  valleys  hereabout 
I  sob  this  plea,  and  the  echoes  shout 

It  back; 

For  the  sake  of  art,  and  my  pride  as  well, 
When  you  write  my  name,  will  you  kindly  spell 

It  Yacque  ? 


REMARKS  FROM  THE  PUP 

She's  taught  me  that  I  mustn't  bark 

At  little  noises  after  dark, 
But  just  refrain  from  any  fuss 

Until  I'm  sure  they're  dangerous. 
This  would  be  easier,  I've  felt, 

If  noises  could  be  seen  or  smelt. 

She's  very  wise,  I  have  no  doubt, 
And  plans  ahead  what  she's  about; 

Yet  after  eating,  every  day, 

She  throws  her  nicest  bones  away. 

If  she  were  really  less  obtuse 
She'd  bury  them  for  future  use. 

But  that  which  makes  me  doubt  the  most 
Those  higher  powers  that  humans  boast 

Is  not  so  much  a  fault  like  that, 
Nor  yet  her  fondness  for  the  cat, 
5  [51] 


But  on  our  pleasant  country  strolls 
Her  dull  indifference  to  holes! 

Ah  me!  what  treasures  might  be  found 
In  holes  that  lead  to  underground! 

However  vague  or  small  one  is, 
It  sends  me  into  ecstasies; 

While  she,  alas!  stands  by  to  scoff, 
Or  meanly  comes  to  call  me  off. 

Oh,  if  I  once  had  time  to  spend 
To  reach  a  hole's  extremest  end, 

I'd  grab  it  fast,  without  a  doubt, 
And  promptly  pull  it  inside  out; 

Then  drag  it  home  with  all  my  power 
To  chew  on  in  a  leisure  hour. 

Of  all  the  mistresses  there  are, 
Mine  is  the  loveliest  by  far! 

Fain  would  I  wag  myself  apart 
If  I  could  thus  reveal  my  heart. 

But  on  some  things,  I  must  conclude 
Mine  is  the  saner  attitude. 
[52] 


A  RONDEAU  OF  REMORSE 

Unhappy,  I  observe  the  Ass, 
Who  browses  placidly  on  grass, 

Or  bits  of  wood  he  will  devour, 
While  e'en  the  prickly  thistle-flower 
Is  spicing  for  his  garden-sass. 

Last  night  that  lovely  golden  mass 
She  called  a  "rarebit"  proved  but  brass; 
And  life  I  gazed  at  through  a  sour 
Unhappy  eye! 

And  as  this  sleepless  night  I  pass 

I  learn  that  he  who  has,  alas! 

An  ass's  judgment  for  his  dower 
May  lack  the  beast's  digestive  power. 

Oh,  miserie!  All  flesh  is  grass! 
Unhappy  I! 


THE  GNU  WOOING 

There  was  a  lovely  lady  Gnu 

Who  browsed  beneath  a  spreading  yew. 

Its  stately  height  was  her  delight; 
A  truly  cooling  shade  it  threw. 
Upon  it  little  tendrils  grew 
Which  gave  her  gentle  joy  to  chew. 

Yet  oft  she  sighed,  a-gazing  wide, 
And  wished  she  knew  another  Gnu 
(Some  newer  Gnu  beneath  the  yew 
To  tell  her  tiny  troubles  to). 


She  lived  the  idle  moments  through, 
And  days  in  dull  succession  flew, 

Till  one  fine  eve  she  ceased  to  grieve — 
A  manly  stranger  met  her  view. 
He  gave  a  courtly  bow  or  two; 
She  coolly  looked  him  through  and  through; 
[54] 


"I  fear  you  make  some  slight  mistake — 
Perhaps  it  is  the  yew  you  knew!" 
(Its  branches  blew  and  seemed  to  coo, 
"Your  cue,  new  Gnu;    it's  up  to  you!") 


Said  he:    "If  guests  you  would  eschew, 
I'll  say  adieu  without  ado; 

But,  let  me  add,  I  knew  your  dad; 
I'm  on  page  two,  the  Gnus'  'Who's  Who."3 
"Forgive,"  she  cried,  "the  snub  I  threw! 
I  feared  you  were  some  parvegnu! 

Tis  my  regret  we've  never  met — 
I  knew  a  Gnu  who  knew  of  you." 
(This  wasn't  true — what's  that  to  you  ? 
The  new  Gnu  knew;    she  knew  he  knew.) 


"Though  there  are  other  trees,  'tis  true," 
Said  she,  "if  you're  attracted  to 

The  yews  I  use,  and  choose  to  chews 
Their  yewy  dewy  tendrils,  do!" 
[55] 


The  end  is  easily  in  view; 

He  wed  her  in  a  week  or  two. 

The  "Daily  Gnus"  did  quite  enthuse; 
And  now,  if  all  I  hear  is  true, 
Beneath  that  yew  the  glad  day  through 
There  romps  a  little  gnuey  new. 


THE  FIRESIDE  ELEPHANT 

Ah  me,  how  frequently  I  pant 

To  be  a  stately  Elephant! 

With  skin  so  thick  and  strength  so  great, 

He  scorns  the  puny  pricks  of  fate, 

The  while  his  shoulders  well  may  bear 

A  really  untold  weight  of  care. 

Ah,  were  I  he,  I  will  aver, 

I'd  be  a  model  householder! 


'Tis  possible,  I  grant  you,  that 

He  is  not  suited  to  a  flat: 

Yet  you'll  admit  at  once  that  he 

Is  builded  for  economy. 

He  need  not  stoop  to  pick  things  up; 

He  needs  no  valet,  cook,  nor  maid; 
His  hand  is  spoon  and  fork  and  cup, 

And  e'en  a  straw  for  lemonade! 

[57] 


And  what  conveniences  are  these: 

When  days  are  hot  in  fourth-floor  rears, 
To  have  a  shower-bath  when  you  please 

And  sit  a-fanning  with  your  ears; 
Or  when  the  days  are  wintry  chill, 

And  windows  must  the  air  exclude, 
To  leave  one's  nose  across  the  sill 

While  folks  below  prepare  their  food. 

The  Fireside  Elephant's  a  thing 
Worth  any  bard's  imagining: 
For  when  his  spouse  prepares  to  darn, 
His  tusks  may  hold  a  skein  of  yarn, 
The  while,  a  cook-book  in  his  nose, 
He  rocks  the  cradle  with  his  toes, 
And  trumpets  in  a  manner  mild 
To  gratify  his  happy  child. 

Where  is  the  man  who  would  not  pant 
To  be  a  gentle  Elephant  ? 


[58] 


TO  A  PIG 

Bards  and  sages,  through  the  ages 
(Winning  fame  instead  of  wages), 
Have  mussed  up  a  million  pages 

With  their  outcries,  small  and  big, 
Singing  wrongs  that  should  be  righted, 
Causes  blighted,  heroes  slighted — 
Yet  no  song  have  they  indited 
To  the  Pig. 


Gentle  Porcus,  suoid  mammal, 

Does  the  thought  that  lard  and  ham'll 

Be  your  future  never  trammel 

Your  fond  fancies  as  you  dig  ? 
Does  it  harrow  to  the  marrow, 
As  you  pace  your  quarters  narrow, 
Dreaming  of  the  storied  glory 
Of  the  Pig? 
[59] 


For  time  was,  ere  man  got  at  you, 
Using  squalid  means  to  fat  you, 
That  you  were  to  be  congratu- 

Lated  on  a  figure  trig; 
And  most  daintily  you  ate  your 
Food,  less  mingled  in  its  nature; 
Fine  of  face,  full  fair  and  graceful 
Was  the  Pig. 

Oh,  S.  P.  C.  A.,  be  gracious; 
If  your  sympathies  be  spacious, 
Bar  such  treatment  contumacious — 

Teach  that  it  is  infra  dig; 
For  although  some  genius  flighty 
Has  described  the  pen  as  mighty 
You'll  admit  a  sward  were  fitter 
For  the  Pig. 


THE  GLAD  YOUNG  CHAMOIS 

How  lightly  leaps  the  youthful  chamois 
From  rock  to  rock  and  never  misses! 

I  always  get  all  cold  and  clamois 
When  near  the  edge  of  precipisses. 

Confronted  by  some  yawning  chasm, 
He  bleats  not  for  his  sire  or  mamois 

(That  is,  supposing  that  he  has'm), 

But  yawns  himself — the  bold  young  lamois! 

He  is  a  thing  of  beauty  always; 

And  when  he  dies,  a  gray  old  ramois 
Leaves  us  his  horns  to  deck  our  hallways; 

His  skin  cleans  teaspoons,  soiled  or  jamois. 

I  shouldn't  like  to  be  a  chamois, 
However  much  I  am  his  debtor. 

I  hate  to  run  and  jump;    why,  damois, 
'Most  any  job  would  suit  me  bebtor! 
[61] 


A  LOVE  MATCH 

'Twas    at   the  races    that    they   met ;    the   Jungle 

A.  A.  U. 

Had   opened  an   athletic   field  upon   the   Upper 
Nile. 

Beneath  her  frank,  admiring  gaze  he  strove  the  best 

he  knew, 

And  won  a  two-mile  handicap  against  the  croco 
dile. 

It  was  a  contest  fine  to  see!     The  crowd  grew  bois 
terous 

And  madly  shouted,  "Hip,  hip,  hip,  hip,  Hipp — 
opotamus !" 


Though  Miss  Rhinoceros's  beaux  referred  to  him 

with  scorn, 

'Twas  plain  she'd  eyes  for  no  one  else.     "That 
brow!     Those  manly  feet!" 
[62] 


"I'm  glad  he  won!"  she  cried  again,  and  tooted  on 

her  horn — 
And  so  her  friend  Miss  Lioness  contrived  to  have 

them  meet. 
"Such  graceful  embonpoint!"  he  sighed,  his  hand 

upon  his  heart. 
'Twas  clear  to  all  who  stood  about  he  loved  her 

from  the  start. 

The  jungle  felt  no  great  surprise  when  soon  their 

cards  were  out. 
The  wedding  was  a  fine  affair,  the  sourest  critics 

grant; 
Though   Dean   Giraffe   is   Higher   Church,   there's 

very  little  doubt 

That  all  were  better  satisfied  with  Bishop  L.  E. 
Phant. 

And  now,  if  Heaven  send  them  twins,  'twill  save  a 

lot  of  fuss 
To  name  them  Hipporoceros  and  Rhinopotamus. 

[63] 


CONCERNING  THE  SLOWNESS  OF  THE 
SLOTH 

My  child,  how  doth 

The  gentle  Sloth 

Improve  each  hour  where'er  he  go'th  ? 

'Tis  true  that  he, 

Unlike  the  bee, 

Seeks  not  for  honey  ceaselessly. 

He's  not  inclined 

To  slave,  I  find, 

For  others,  like  the  faithful  hind; 

Nor  as  the  ant 

To  toil  and  pant — 

He  either  won't  or  else  he  can't. 

Yet  there  are  chaps 
Like  him,  perhaps, 

Crushed  down  'neath  heavy  handicaps, 
[64] 


And  'tis  our  place 

The  facts  to  face 

And  honestly  to  view  his  case. 

Where'er  he  goes, 

He  always  knows 

He  has  no  full  supply  of  toes; 

That's  why  he's  not 

Inclined  to  trot, 

Lest  he  should  harm  the  few  he's  got. 

The  very  crown 

Of  his  renown 

Is  walking  branches  upside  down. 

It  is  a  ruse 

That  don't  conduce 

To  hurry.     Also,  what's  the  use  ? 

And  if  you'll  look 
In  any  book 

You'll  find  him,  if  I'm  not  mistook, 
[65] 


Entitled  thus: 

Didactylus, 

Or  A-i  Arctopithicus. 

That  name,  I  guess, 

You  will  confess, 

Would  render  you  ambitionless! 

So,  goodness  knowth, 

That's  why  I'm  loath 

To  cast  aspersion  on  the  Sloth. 


BOOKISH  BALLADS 


THE  MODERN  BOOK  AD. 

Hark!  A  thousand  voices  crying,  "Come,  good  folk, 
and  be  a-buying, 

Take  a  book  home  to  your  baby  or  your  spouse; 
Just  exactly  what  is  in  it  doesn't  matter  for  a  minute, 

But  a  book's  a  handy  thing  about  the  house." 

"Buy  this  pink-and-purple  cover!  Not  an  up-to- 
date  book-lover 

Is  without  it,  for  the  author's  ten  years  old; 
Seven  weeks  before  'twas  written  (and  he  wrote  it 

at  a  sittin'), 
Forty-seven  thousand  copies  had  been  sold!" 

"Look  at  this,"  cries  out  another,  "buy  this  'Letters 

to  My  Mother.' 

The  author  is  anonymous,  they  say; 
And  criticisms   recent   say  that   Chapter  Twelve's 

indecent, 
And  the  clergy  are  protesting  every  day!" 

[69] 


"Please  buy  this,"  a  voice  is  pleading,  "if  perchance 

you  tire  of  reading, 

The  puzzle-pictures  sure  will  make  a  hit; 
There  are  maids  of  divers  ages  on  as  many  different 

pages— 
If  you  guess  which  one  is  Bridget,  you  are  it!" 

"Buy  My  tome,  all  clad  in  vellum!  (see  how  rapidly 
I  sell  'em, 

Though  art  is  long  and  times  are  very  hard) 
It's  a  limited  edition — take  it  home  upon  suspicion — 

It  was  done  into  a  book  in  my  backyard." 

"Here!"  they  cry  in  dreadful  babel,  "this  would 

suit  your  parlor  table; 

In  calf  'twould  cost  you  only  a  few  groats! 
See  That  Hump  ?     It  keeps  the  leather  very  closely 

held  together, 
S.  H.  M.  is  on  the  Binding,  and  It  Floats!" 

Though  I'm  glad  to  know  the  ages  of  a  few  preco 
cious  sages 

Whose  novels  voice  strange  views  of  history; 
[70] 


And  I'm  really  quite  excited  to  learn  a  book's  indited 
By  a  man  who  takes  no  sugar  in  his  tea. 

Though  I  read  with  vim  surprising  all  this  modern 

advertising, 
Which  turns  an  author's  fireside  inside-out, — 

I  admit  an  inclination,  as  I  buy  the  last  sensation, 
To  learn  just  what  the  contents  are  about! 


TASTE  FOR  LITERATURE 

The  goat  a  learned  soul  is  he! 
He  takes  a  tome  upon  his  knee, 
And  be  it  ever  so  profound, 
In  rarest  lore  though  it  abound, 
Expounded  by  some  ancient  sage, — 
Yet  he'll  devour  it  page  by  page 
With  careless  mien  and  free. 
Were  I  a  Goat  'twould  make  me  gloat 
In  glee! 

For  as  the  matter  stands  with  me, 

I  delve  in  books  unceasingly; 

Yet  some  I  read,  of  vast  portent, 

And  never  know  just  what  they  meant. 

I  fear  (with  sorrow  be  it  said) 

My  stomach's  stronger  than  my  head — 

A  dreadful  way  to  be! 

That's  why  I'd  gloat,  were  I  a  goat, 
You  see. 

[72] 


The  Goat  a  cultured  taste  has  he, 

And  catholic  as  it  can  be. 

Through  libraries  he'll  browse  with  zest 

And  find  no  works  he  can't  digest. 

Though  nowadays  there's  stuff  that's  writ, 

Would  give  a  goat  a  coughing  fit, 

Or  so  it  seems  to  me. 

But  ah,  the  Goat  a  husky  throat 
Has  he. 

With  clever  perspicacity 
I've  learned  a  thing  that  startled  me. 
Since  I  myself  have  writ  a  book 
I  scan  reviews  with  anxious  look — 
And  all  the  papers  that  I  read 
Have  hired  a  goat  to  do  the  deed — 
'Tis  true  as  true  can  be. 
And  much  I've  wrote  has  smote  some  goat, 
Or  stuck,  I  fear,  within  his  throat — 
Ah  me! 


RECIPE  FOR  POEMS 

Find  first  thy  meter.     If  the  task  be  hard 

Consult  thy  Keats  and  Shelley — in  them  is 
Some  measure  that  will  suit  a  busy  bard, 

('Twas  "Adonais"  I  used  in  writing  this!). 

Then,  if  thy  rhymthic  feeling  run  amiss, 
Heed  thou  the  ticking  clock — it  may  transfer 

Those  beats  from  out  its  cranial  abyss 
All  choked  with  wheels,  to  where  thine  own  works 

whirr — 
Then  sit  thee  calmly  down  before  thy  typewriter. 


Seek  next  thy  subject.     Let  the  matter  be 

Not  as  a  stranger,  but  some  old,  old  friend, 
As    "Death,"    "A    Daisy,"    "Spring,"    or   "Con 
stancy." 

Then  for  thy  rhyming  dictionary  send, 
For  oft  its  echoing  columns  hap  to  lend 
[74] 


A  few  poetic  thoughts  to  him  who  gleans. 
And  keep  in  mind  until  the  very  end — 
That  line  is  best  if  none  know  what  it  means. 
Thus  do  the  poets  write  their  verse  for  magazines. 


A  MAGAZINE  POEM 

My  spirit  drank  of  ecstasy  and  tears 

In  that  far  day  when  dawn  lay  on  the 'slopes; 

My  bosom  undulated  with  the  hopes 
That  Bab  el  Mandeb  felt  before  Algiers, 

Or  e'en  made  grim  Protagonistes  smile. — 
(I  guess  that  ought  to  hold  'em  for  a  while.) 

And  all  the  eyes  of  Nature  seemed  to  dart 
Fond  glances  o'er  the  welkin  to  my  feet, 

As  though  her  soul  distilled  its  essence  sweet 
Into  the  groveling  goblet  of  my  heart 

And  gleamed  and  glinted  with  a  gracious  glee, 
And  every  other  way  that  starts  with  G. 

But  then  came  Night.     Great  Grief,  how  it  was  dark! 

And  e'en,  eftsoon,  perchance,  ah  me,   forsooth, 
No  candle-bearing  Pfthytys  showed  the  Truth, 

Or  heav'n-high  Prophylactus  shouted  Hark! 
Till  my  bemaddened  mind  would  sometimes  think — 

And  sometimes  not.     My  Soul!  I've  drunk  the  ink! 
[76] 


GNATS 

Whenever  you  have  met  a  gnat 
And  laid  him  low  with  hand  or  hat, 
Or  fanned  at  him  this  way  and  that, 

And  cursed  such  creatures, 
I'll  vow  you've  ne'er  looked  closely  at 

His  salient  features. 

He  has  a  shrewish  sort  of  face, 

A  glance  demure,  with  just  the  trace 

Of  an  impertinent  grimace 

Which,  after  all, 
You  must  admit  is  out  of  place 

In  one  so  small. 

And  looking  closer,  I've  descried, 
When  lesser  gnats  are  by  his  side. 
Or  midgets,  he  assumes  a  stride, 

And  never  mellows. 
He  has  a  most  vainglorious  pride 

'Mid  smaller  fellows. 
[771 


The  fact  that  folks  like  you  and  me 
Would  notice  him  at  all,  you  see, 
Quite  turned  his  little  head,  till  he 

Lost  all  perspective; 
He's  quite  puffed  up  with  vanity 

At  our  invective. 

Ah  me,  it  often  is  the  fate 
Of  little  bosoms  to  inflate 
And  grow,  toward  those  of  like  estate 

Quite  proud  and  testy. 
That  they  can  e'en  annoy  the  Great 

Has  made  them  chesty. 

My  son,  if  you've  a  pointed  pen, 
And  want  to  use  it  now  and  then, 
There  are  no  ways  within  my  ken 

To  make  Fame  love  you, 
So  bad  as  jabbing  fellow-men 

Who  loom  above  you. 


[78] 


AGAINST  RAISING  THE  POSTAL 
RATE  ON  MAGAZINES 

O  Government  of  our  fair  land, 
Which  wisely  frames  our  postal  laws, 

Before  thy  gates  an  earnest  band, 

The  periodic  Poets,  stand 
To  plead  an  humble  cause. 

The  poets  of  the  magazines 

Pray  heed,  in  framing  thy  design! 
Observe  the  patches  in  our  jeans, 
Protect  our  all  too  slender  means, 
Our  thirty  cents  per  line. 

Ten  thousand  of  us  in  array 

March  bravely  'neath  Euterpe's  banner; 
One  thousand  from  the  U.  S.  A. — 
From  Golden  Gate  to  Casco  Bay — 

The  rest  from  Indianner. 
[79] 


An  emblem  of  thy  power  benign 
We  see,  and  pause  before  we  lick, 

On  each  adhesive  stamp  of  thine, 

Behind  its  innocent  design, 
Thou  placest  a  big  stick. 

And  wouldst  thou  make  thy  income  greater 

In  ways  convenient  or  methodical, 
By  raising  rates  on  our  creator, 
That  Moral  Force,  that  Mind  Inflator, 
The  mighty  Periodical  ? 

As  in  the  business  of  the  Great, 
It  always  is  the  smallest  cuss 
Who  pays  increased  taxation  rate, 
So  we  can  see  the  hand  of  Fate — 
This  will  come  out  of  us. 

Thy  task  is  noble  and  immense, 
O  watchdogs  of  our  Treasury; 
Chop  through  the  forests  of  expense — 
Railways,  and  rural  routes,  and  rents — 
But,  Woodmen,  spare  our  tree! 
[80] 


OLDE  ENGLISH  BALLAD 

Three  knights  ryd  out  of  the  forest  glades, 
With  a  hey  down  Jerry,  derry  down  dey! 

And  one  was  black  as  the  ace  of   spades, 

With  a  down  hey  down,  and  a  derry  down  dey! 

And  one  was  white  as  he  well  could  be 

Syn  he  ryd  him  out  of  the  mud  countree, 

And  one  was  ryding  a  toy  gee-gee, 
Fol  de  rol,  de  riddle  de  rol  de  ray! 


Now  the  knight  as  black  as  the  ace  of  spades, 

With  a  hi  non  noni,  no  nonny  hey! 
And  the  white  knight  soiled  in  the  forest  glades, 

With  a  ho  nonny  noni,  non  nonny  hey! 
They  fought  with  the  one  on  the  toy  gee-gee 
And  they  licked  the  boots  clean  off  of  he — 
(You  must  sing  this  verse  in  a  minor  key) 
Fol  de  rol,  de  riddle  de  rol  de  ray! 
[81] 


And  the  two  that  were  left  whipt  out  their  blades, 
With  a  hey  down  derry,  no  nonny  hey! 

And  each  sent  each  to  the  land  of  shades, 
With  a  hi  non  nonny,  Jerry  down  dey! 

And  that  was  the  end  of  the  ryders  three. 

What  terrible  tommyrot  ballads  be! 

And  nonny  and  deny  mean  nothing  to  me, 

So  whim  wham  whaddle  oh!     Strim  stram  straddle  oh! 
Heigh  ho  et  cetera  rol  de  ray! 


BACHELOR  BALLADS 


THE  LITTLE  YANKEE  COLLEGE 

Since  the  world  was  first  created  there  has  been  some 

wear  and  tear, 
And  little  wheels  have  slipped  their  cogs,  or  rusted 

here  and  there. 
So  God  He  built  the  Yankee,  lank  and  odd  to  look 

upon, 
But  fit  to  do  the  little  things  that  needed  to  be  done. 

The  Yankee  did  his  duty,  but  he  noticed  now  and  then 
The  wages  that  were  offered  by  the  devil  unto  men. 
So,  lest  his  children's  children  be  lured  and  led  astray, 
Said  he,  "I'll  build  them  temples  that  will  flout  the 
devil's  pay. 

"I'll  carve  my  high  commission  into  tablets  made 

of  stone — 
Let  the  spirit  be  the  Master's  and  the  workmanship 

my  own." 

[85] 


Firm  of  will,  the  Yankee  builder  did  his  work  and 

went  before, 
And  the  little  Yankee  college  acts  as  his  executor. 

The  little  Yankee  college,  it  is  shadowed  now  and 

then 

By  mightier  machinery  for  educating  men, 
But  we  seem  to  hear  that  builder's  ghostly  whisper, 

"I  opine 
The  little  mills  grind  fewer  grains,  but  grind  'em 

extra  fine." 

The  little  Yankee  colleges,  God  bless  them,  heart 

and  soul — 

Each  little  lump  of  leaven  that  leaveneth  the  whole ! 
What  need  of  mighty  numbers,  if  they  fashion,  one 

by  one, 
The  men  who  do  the  little  things  a-needing  to  be 

done  ? 


THE  BOARDING-HOUSE 

The  gnashing  teeth  bit  hard 
On  a  firm  and  rib-bound  roast, 

And  the  boarders  'gainst  a  table  scarred 
The  leaden  biscuit  tossed. 

And  they  frowned  with  inward  storm 
As  they  scanned  the  dishes  o'er, 

And  recognized  in  a  chowdered  form 
The  things  they'd  seen  before. 

Not  as  the  conqueror  comes, 
Stirred  by  the  trumpet's  yell, 

They  came  at  the  yearn  of  empty  turns 
And  the  sounding  supper-bell. 

Amid  the  meal  they  sang 

Small  tales  of  tardy  ones, 
And  eyed  with  ill-concealed  pang 

Each  other's  sauce  and  buns. 
[87] 


A  dame  in  watered  silk 

Who  sat  beside  the  urn, 
Smiled  coldly  as  she  thinned  the  milk 

And  doled  to  each  in  turn. 

There  were  men  with  hoary  hair 

Amidst  that  hungry  group. 
Why  had  they  come  to  wither  there 

And  mumble  o'er  their  soup  ? 

There  was  woman's  hungry  eye 

Seeking  an  extra  roll; 
There  was  manhood's  brow  serenely  high 

Guarding  the  sugar-bowl. 

What  sought  those  reaching  arms? 

Fat  pickings  'mid  the  dearth  ? 
The  wealth  of  seas — the  spoil  of  farms? 

They  craved  their  money's  worth. 

Save  here  a  stain  of  broth 

And  there  a  gravy  trace, 
They  left  a  barren,  crumbless  cloth 

Within  that  boarding-place. 
[88] 


A  POET'S  FIRST  EFFORT 

To  tell  thee  of  my  lasting  love 

I  send  this  to  thee,  dear, 
To  say  that  throughout  all  my  life 
I've  ne'er  found  maid  so — queer 

— drear 

— peer- 
Of  course, 

I've  ne'er  found  maid  thy  peer. 


I  love  to  gaze  into  thine  eyes, 
Those  windows  of  thy  soul, 
So  full  of  tender  meaning,  love, 
Like  to  a — buttered  roll 

— ton  of  coal 

— distant  goal- 
To  be  sure, 

They  are  my  distant  goal. 


I  love  to  clasp  thy  little  hand, 

I  cannot  let  it  fall; 
Your  shapely,  tender  little  arm 
Is  like  a — parasol 

— worsted  shawl 
— musket  ball 

— garden  wall — 

Just  what  your  little  arm  is  like, 
I  cannot  now  recall. 

I  love  the  music  of  thy  voice, 

I'd  listen  to  it  long, 
I  often  think  its  gentle  tones 
Are  like  a — dinner-gong 

— something  wrong 
— angel's  song — 
Yes,  yes, 
Are  like  an  angel's  song. 

Thy  wavy  hair,  thy  cherry  lips, 
Thy  merry,  silvecy  laugh; 
[90] 


But  more  than  all,  thy  graceful  form, 
'Tis  like  a — thin  giraffe 

— brindle  calf 

— turning-lathe — 

You  know  just  what  I  want  to  say, 
I  can't  express  it  half. 

And  so 

I  send  these  verses  to  you,  Love, 

I  hope  that  they  will  take; 
For  if  you  should  accept  my  suit 
I'd  have  a — stomach  ache 

— griddle  cake 
— Irish  wake 
— garter  snake — 

I  fear  that  I  can  rhyme  no  more, 
I'll  stop  it  for  your  sake. 


IN  EDEN 

Cupid's  getting  sere  and  yellow, 
Passing  years  new  wrinkles  leave — 

Ah,  he  was  a  happy  fellow 

When  young  Adam  courted  Eve! 

Oh,  those  happy  days  in  Eden — 
One  could  whisper  any  bluff, 

Sure  of  finally  succeeding, 
If  he  whispered  long  enough. 

He  could  vow  in  terms  veracious, 
Ne'er  had  he  loved  maiden  more, 

Nor  in  all  that  garden  spacious, 
Ever  kissed  a  girl  before. 

If  she  said  she  loved  another, 
In  a  manner  coy  and  sweet, 

Glad  to  have  him  for  a  brother — 
He'd  suspect  her  of  deceit. 
[92] 


If  he,  kneeling,  sought  to  rouse  her — 
Even  Eve  was  hard  to  please — 

Lucky  fellow  knew  his  trouser 
Wasn't  bagging  at  the  knees. 

Cupid's  getting  old  and  wrinkled, 
Passing  years  their  traces  leave, 

Since  the  days  when  Venus  twinkled 
Down  on  Adam  courting  Eve. 


The  slyest  of  wiles  was  her  shyest  of  smiles, 

So  I  hardened  my  heart  to  resist, 
And  I  sought  to  despise  that  glance  of  her  eyes 

And  those  lips  that  a  saint  would  have  kissed. 
But  tears  on  her  cheek  made  my  prudence  turn  weak, 

And  I  hurried  to  comfort  her  woe — 
'Twas  then  I  was  lost,  and  I  found,  to  my  cost, 

She  had  more  than  one  string  to  her  bow. 

Yes,  dangerous  wiles  were  her  innocent  smiles, 

And  eyes  that  a  sunbeam  had  kissed; 
And  hope  there  was  none  when  the  sinner  had  done 

What  never  a  saint  could  resist! 
But  joys  all  depart  in  my  sadness  of  heart, 

And  life  no  more  pleasure  can  bring — 
Ah,  sore  is  my  grieving!  that  maiden  deceiving 

Has  more  than  one  beau  to  her  string. 


A  MEMENTO 

Sweet  Edith,  is  the  summer  through — 
Those  days  of  happiness  with  you  ? 

They  seemed  to  vanish  with  a  rush. 
Shall  you  forget  me  in  a  day? 
I  would  not  have  it  chance  that  way, 

And  so  I  send  this  bristle  brush. 

Perhaps  the  one  who  shares  with  thee 
That  swing  beneath  the  chestnut-tree, 

The  one  who  dares  those  sleeves  to  crush, 
And  steal  a  kiss,  that  fellow  rash 
May  wear  a  beard  or  soft  mustache — 

That's  why  I  send  this  bristle  brush. 

When  in  that  hammock  'neath  the  trees, 
And  swinging  in  the  merry  breeze, 

Sweet  mem'ries  rouse  the  mantling  blush; 
[95] 


Then  dream  that  hammock's  clasp  is  mine 
And  'gainst  those  daring  lips  of  thine 
Just  press  this  little  bristle  brush. 

Or  when  the  dew  is  on  the  ground 
And  deeper  darkness  gathers  round, 

While  bedtime  brings  its  wonted  hush, 
Then  standing  on  the  bottom  stair, 
That  soft  cheek  framed  in  truant  hair, 

Just  rest  against  this  bristle  brush. 


FAR  BETTER 

We  played  at  poker,  she  and  I, 

I  fear  I  was  her  debtor. 
The  limit  of  my  wealth  drew  nigh — 
I  cared  not,  though  she  bet  me  high; 

I  loved  but  one — the  bettor. 

I  bluffed  and  went  a  reckless  sum, 

Assured  that  loss  beset  her. 
She  met  my  bluff  with  laughing  eye, 
(I  wish  I  held  that  hand,  thought  I) 

And  went  me  one  the  better. 

The  game  she  played  was  full  of  guile, 

And  yet  I  basely  let  her. 
She  won  her  every  bet  from  me, 
Yet  what  cared  I,  because,  you  see, 

'Twas  I  that  won  the  bettor. 


A  BASHFUL  VALENTINE 

Cupid,  stern,  imperious,  bids  me  write  to  greet  her, 
And  for  once  be  serious  in  a  merry  meter. 

What's  the  use  of  keeping  feelings  on  the  quiet  ? 
Pale  from  lack  of  sleeping,  thin  from  slender  diet. 

Truant  thoughts  are  thronging  ever  from  their  duty, 
Think  of  her  with  longing,  dazzled  by  her  beauty. 

From  her  dainty  leather,  to  the  hat  above  her — 
I'm  so  shy  I'd  never  dare  confess  I — 

For  the  life  of  me,  I  can't  think 

of  any  rhyme  here! 

In  the  lines  I  drop  her,  shall  I  say  what's  nearest  ? 
Would  it  be  just  proper  if  I  called  her — 

Dear  me!    I  am  completely  at  a 

loss  for  words. 
[98] 


I  would  quit  this  versin'  if  my  heart  were  stouter; 

Tell  it  all  in  person,  with  my  arm — 

Where  in  thunder  is  my  rhym 
ing  dictionary? 

Cupid's  shot  his  arrow — Cupid  never  misses. 

(Is  this  page  too  narrow  for  a  dozen — 

Good  gracious!     It  is  certainly 

time  I  stopped  this  rhyming  business. 


YE  TRUE-HEARTED  SWAINE 

He  vowed  hys  love  woulde  mocke  att  fate,  and  laughe 

att  anie  teste — 
Ah,  Constancie,  how  raire  a  traite  in  anie  human 

breaste! 

For  she  was  faire  as  Saintes  above — 
Nor  Tyme  nor  Tyde  coulde  shake  hys  Love. 

"I  love  thy  wavinge  flaxyn  haire,"  he  pledd  in  ac 
cents  lowe; 
She  mett  hys  trustyng  Gaze  and  sware  she'd  nott 

deceive  hym  soe — 

"'Tis  false,"  shesyghed,  "though  now  bedight 
Wyth  flaxyn  Haire,  I'm  balde  att  nyght." 

Ryght  brauvly  rose  hee  to  ye  Teste — "What  care  I, 

thenn  ?"  quod  hee. 
"Thy  damaske  cheeke  e'en  love  I  beste" — she  syghed 

right  Sorrilie 

[100] 


And  raised  herr  hed,  wyth  Pitie  smote — 
Ye  Damaske  stucke  upon  hys  coate! 

Yett  spake  hee  wyth  unquenched  fyre  (wythal  hee 

shooke  beneth): 
"Those  beaming  eyes  my  Love   inspyre,   and  eke 

those  pearlie  teethe." 

She  sobbed:    "They're  boughten  teethe,  alas, 
And  ye  offe  Eye  is  made  of  Glasse." 

Oddsdeath!     Hys  voice  grewe  hoarse  wyth  dredd — 

"That  God-lyke  form?"  quod  hee, 
"Ah,  tell  me  not" — she  bowed  Her  Hed,  nor  anie 

words  spake  shee — 
Save  eke  to  heave  a  lyttle  sygh, 
And  winke  ye  artificial  Eye. 

Thenn  wyldlie  lept  hee  to  hys  feete,  and  raysed  hys 

hande  above — 
"I  sweare  that  I  woulde  love  thee,  Sweet,  an  I  knew 

whatt  to  love!" 

[101] 


"All  Fleshe  is  grasse,"  oftsoon  he  cryd, 
And  then,  forsooth,  he  uppe  and  dyde. 

And  whenn  ye  Autopsie  was  tryd,  it  puzzled  all  ye 

Doctors'  witts, 
In  learned  scrch  of  hys  Insyde,  to  finde  hys  hearte 

in  manie  bitts. 


WITH  A  BOX  OF  CANDY 

Sweet  are  these  trifles  that  I  send,  and  yet 

Time  was  I  tasted  and  they  seemed  not  sweet: 
The  brightest  star  in  all  the  heaven  set 

By  moonlight  pales,  and  owns  a  full  defeat. 

And  once  my  happiness  was  so  complete, 
Mere  sweetness  it  was  easy  to  forget: 
Sweet  are  these  trifles  that  I  send,  and  yet 

Time  was  I  tasted  and  they  seemed  not  sweet. 

A  drowsy  horse  that  knew  not  whip  nor  threat — 
A  box  between  us  on  the  buggy-seat — 

And  fed  by  fingers  that  one  strove  to  get — 
Who  could  do  else  but  blindly  eat  and  eat  ? 

Sweet  are  these  trifles  that  I  send,  and  yet 
Time  was  I  tasted  and  they  seemed  not  sweet. 


A  TOAST  TO  CLAUDINE 

Suppose  that  the  ocean  (forgive  such  a  notion!) 

Were  naught  but  a  vat  full  of  wine. 
And  lads  of  each  nation,  at  my  invitation, 

Sat  down  at  its  edges  to  dine. 
I'd  cry  'cross  the  table,  "Rise,  all  who  are  able, 

And  pledge  me,  all  ye  who  know  how — 
Though  often  your  glasses  may  clink  to  the  lasses 

They'll  ne'er  ring  so  sweetly  as  now — 

Here's  How! 

Skoel!     Smike  Froken  Klaudine! 
Dhrink  wan  drap  to  me  swate-voiced  colleen! 

Gesundheit!  or  Prosit! 

Each  man  as  he  knows  it, 
Drink  deep  to  the  dainty  Claudine." 

Suppose  each  good  fellow  got  more  and  more  mel 
low 

In  pledging  so  lovely  a  name. 
[104] 


Till  all  of  the  babel  slid  under  the  table 

And  left  me  alone  in  the  game. 
Yet  still  would  I  stand  there  (suppose  all  the  sand 
there 

Were  peanuts  and  pretzels  galore!) 
I'd  drink  up  the  ocean  (Forgive  such  a  notion!) 

And  'tween  drinks  I'd  eat  up  the  shore — 

And  roar — 

"Hoch!  fur  die  liebsten  Klaudine! 
The  foinest  colleen  ever  seen! 

Votr'  sante!  or  Prosit! 

I  care  not  who  knows  it — 
I've  downed  the  whole  world  for  Claudine!" 


THE  BRIDGE 

I  stood  on  the  bridge  at  midnight, 
When  the  clock  was  striking  the  hour, 

And  the  lamp-post  bright  was  a  merry  sight 
As  it  danced  'neath  the  old  church  tower. 

And  the  load  that  I  had  upon  me 

Was  heavy  for  such  as  I, 
For  myriad  moons,  like  toy  balloons, 

Played  tag  in  a  starlit  sky. 

And  I  looked  on  that  lone  policeman 

As  one  of  my  worst  of  foes; 
And  the  clock  in  the  tower  was  striking  the  hour 

When  I  stood  on  the  bridge  of  his  nose. 


THE  CULT  OF  THE  POPPYCOCK 

A  pale  Ahmee  and  a  Poppycock 

They  gat  themselves  to  a  bosky  rock. 

Said  he,  "There's  a  stated  hour,  I  find, 

For  each  pursuit  of  the  human  mind; 

As  the  tea-hour  tolls  for  buttered  rolls, 

So  now  is  a  time  for  swapping  souls." 

And  the  Ahmee   sighed,  as   she   smoothed  her 

frock, 
"'Tis  a  purple  thought,  dear  Poppycock!" 

"My  mind,  I  find,"  said  the  Poppycock, 
"Is  a  crucial  key  to  the  cosmic  Lock; 
'Tis  largely  due,  I  would  fain  aver, 
To  the  astral  Is  of  the  As  It  Were, — 
With  the  tensive  strain  on  my  limnal  brain, 
As  I  grope  for  the  scope  of  the  It,  in  vain." 
"Tis  a  passioned  truth,  but  it  brings  a  shock!" 
Purred  the  pale  Ahmee  to  the  Poppycock. 
[107] 


"Now  as  for  me,"  mused  the  lithe  Ahmee, 
"I  sigh  the  most  for  the  more  I  see. 
Though  I  yearn  and  yearn,  as  you  well  may  wot, 
None  heed  my  need  of  the  Basic  What, — 
Till  you  scented  truth  in  my  color  tones, 
And  caught  the  thought  of  our  mingled  zones!" 
"How  wonder-deep  is  the  blend!"  cried  he, 
"Of  our  atmospheres,  dear  twin  Ahmee!" 

Said  the  Poppycock  to  the  pale  Ahmee, 
"This  rock  shall  live  in  history; 
For  while  our  thoughts  so  swiftly  throng, 
Let's  plan  for  a  most  select  salon, 
Where  kindred  souls  may  meet  to  woo 
The  vague  Perhaps  of  the  mystic  Who." 
"How  sweet  a  thought,  yet  how  fond  and  free! — 
'Tis  a  pale-pink  plan!"  cried  the  fair  Ahmee. 

The  svelt  Ahmee  and  the  Poppycock, 
In  evening  dress  and  a  lissome  frock, 
And  under  a  blood-red  chandelier 
Spake  jewel-words,  now  there,  now  here, — 
[108] 


Of  Art,  and  Truth,  and  the  End  of  More, — 
And  the  Boundless  Since  of  the  vast  Before, 
And  of  those  who  came  in  a  motley  flock, 
Some  cried  Ahmee!  and  some  Poppycock! 


THE  PASSING  OF  THE  AUTO-CRAT 

The  Auto-crat — oh,  think  of  that! — he  went  a  fear 
ful  pace; 

He  did  not  smile,  though  all  the  while  he  had  a 
-mobile  face. 

He  took  no  interest  in  man,  yet  sought  the  human 
race. 

The  Auto-crat — oh,  think  of  that! — I   never  saw 

him  laugh; 
In  wreckage  strowed  along  the  road  he  wrote  his 

auto-graph. 
A  horrid  smell  were  suited  well  to  be  his  epitaph. 

The  Auto-crat — oh,  think  of  that! — upon  his  dying 
day 

The  only  word  I  overheard  he   hadn't  auto  say. 

'Twas  gasolene  that  brought  about  his  sad  auto- 
da-fe. 

[HO] 


The  Auto-crat — oh,  think  of  that! — his  end  was 
swift  and  sharp, 

I  hope  it  hurt — 'twas  his  desert — though  I  don't 
wish  to  carp; 

Perhaps  he's  in  a  sweeter  land  and  plays  an  auto- 
harp. 


THE  COMING  AMERICAN 

Perhaps  when  the  sturdy  ideal 

And  the  hanker  for  hunting  and  strife, 
Shall  make  universal  appeal, 

And  we  all  lead  a  strenuous  life; 

When  the  national  forests  have  spread, 
And  all  of  our  States  are  "reserves," 

We'll  breed  a  new  race  in  our  stead, 
With  neither  wealth,  culture  nor  nerves. 

And  over  the  wrecks  of  to-day, 

When  Gotham's  a  sand-dune  and  slough, 

The  Amerind,  fiercely  at  play, 

Will  chase  the  wild  Alderney  cow, 


BALLADS   OF  A  HOUSEHOLDER 


BE  IT  EVER  SO  HUMBLE 

Away  with  summer  traveling 
To  distant  cool  retreats, 

While  tempers  are  unraveling 
In  stuffy  railroad  seats. 

When  August  days  are  sweltering, 
And  addled  tourists  roam; 

I  much  prefer  the  sheltering 
Retreat  of  my  own  home. 

I  need  no  sea's  adjacency, 
For  (tell  it  not  in  Gath) 

I'm  vestured  in  complacency 
And  seated  in  my  bath. 

Nor  yet  from  mountain  latitudes 

Need  I  remain  aloof, 
For  oft  in  lang'rous  attitudes 

I'm  resting  on  my  roof. 
9 


I  would  not  golf  perspiringly 
While  all  my  features  scorch, 

For  I  can  romp  less  tiringly 
At  sweeping  off  the  porch. 

At  tennis  I've  played  doubles  some, 

In  pleasant  linen  lugs, 
But  postures  far  less  troublesome 

Are  used  when  beating  rugs. 

You  boast  a  breeze  in  birdie-land, — 
You  vaunt  those  pipes  of  Pan's  ? — 

I  hear  a  hurdy-gurdy,  and 
I  feel  electric  fans. 

The  forest  is  no  Lorelei 

To  chant  a  charm  to  me, 
For  though  it  be  immoral,  I 

Prefer  my  own  roof-tree. 


FOOD  RHAPSODY 

The  grievous  limitations 

Of  the  poet's  intellect 

Began  with  this  Creation's 

Early  dawning,  I  suspect. 

And  flowers  and  lambkins   by  the  yard, 

And  hearts  and  darts  and  spring, 

'Tis  said  the  first  prehensile  bard 

Was  ever  wont  to  sing. 

Oh,  why,  in  all  the  ages, 

Did  never  one  allude, 

In  fine,  immortal  pages, 

To  the  joys  of  Food  ? 

Though  my  Pegasus  be  lame, 

I  will  right  this  deadly  shame, — 

I  will  substitute  pure  nerve  for 

A  true  poetic  fervor, 

Or  I'll  hire  me  a  lyre, 

Just  to  sing  the  song  of  Food. 


Food!  fubsy  Food! 

Let  me  sing  in  ardent  mood 

Endless  praises, 

Though  my  phrases 

Unpoetic  be,  and  crude; 

Though  the  feet  are 

Prone  to  teeter, 

And  the  versifying  rude, 

What  meter  could  be  sweeter 

Than  a  song  of  Food! 

The  lily  is  so  sweet,  it  may 
Stir  poets  loud  and  long, — 
But  if  they  tried  to  eat  it,  they 
Would  sing  another  song. 
Then  why  not  sing  of  radishes, 
That  bloom  for  me  and  you  ? — 
And  though  it  somewhat  saddish  is, 
Oh,  why  not  sing  of  stew  ? 
Tho*  flowers  and  bowers  and  summer  show 
ers 

May  suit  a  certain  mood, 
[118] 


I'd  spend  a  few  poetic  hours 
On  useful  Food! 
Handsome  is  as  handsome  does, 
Fairest  flower  that  ever  was 
Loses  luster  near  a  pumpkin, 
So  upon  my  harp  I'm  plunkin',- 
For  I'm  longing  to  be  songing 
As  I  brood  upon  my  Food. 

Food!  raw  Food! 

(Or  boiled  or  fried  or  stewed), 

See  it  wait 

On  the  plate, 

Just  waiting  to  be  chewed. 

Who  is  tiring 

Of  admiring, 

As  its  essences  exude! 

Hot  or  not,  oh,  how  inspiring 

Is  the  thought  of  Food! 


THE  CAVIRABBIOBSTER 

The  Cavirabbiobster  is  a  captivating  cuss, 

With  an  eye  like  an  inland  sea; 
With  an  appetite  voracious  and  a  massive  maw  so 

spacious 

That  he  doesn't  draw  the  line  at  you  or  me — 
Whoopee !     He'll  butter  you  and  dip  you  in  his 

tea. 
Just  as  greedily  he'll  dish  up  in  a  stew  a  tramp  or 

bishop, 
Mercy  me! 
Quite  catholic  his  taste,  though  his  looks  are  lithe 

and  chaste, 

He's    a    bulbous,  bilious,  bosky  -  looking,  baffula- 
cious  baste. 

He   comes   upon  you   quietly,   a -tossing  on  your 

bed,— 

'Tis  thus  he  has  come  to  me, 
[120] 


And  his  features  wan  and  pallid  were  the  hue  of 

lobster  salad, 

Welsh  rabbits  formed  the  skin  of  either  knee, — 
Whoopee!     He  was  panoplied  with  pastry,  cap- 
a-pie. 
The  effect  of  him  is  utter,  and  it  does  no  good  to 

mutter 
Fiddle  Dee! 
For  oysters,   fried    and   raw,   decorate    his    either 

jaw,— 

This  Cavirabbiobster   with   the    hot-bread    in    his 
paw. 


Have  ye  seen  him,  O  my  brothers,  as  ye  kicked  the 

clothes  about, 

When  he  came  with  a  grin  of  glee  ? 
And  ye  fainted,  falling,  falling,  through  his  vasty 

void  appalling, 

To  be  grinded  up  in  his  machinery. 
Whoopee!     'Tis    a    thing   we    don't    sufficiently 
foresee. 

[121] 


Did  ye  wake  the  echoes,  yelping,  "Take  away  that 

second  helping!" 
Glory  be! 
Henceforth  throughout  my  life  I  will  hearken  to  my 

wife, — 
Tea,  temperance  and  toast,  my  boy,  are  good  enough 

for  me. 


SPRING  DOG-ERAL 

Oh,  listen  close  for  the  voice  of  spring; 
Though  faint  and  fine,  'tis  the  fairest  thing 

That  ever  assailed  the  ear! 
Chilly  winter  may  do  for  firs, 
But  wait  till  the  pussy-willow  purrs, 
And  the  cows'  lips  lap  the  sap  as  it  stirs — 

A  delicate  thing  to  hear! 
But  truest  tone  of  them  all  to  me, 
I  love  the  bark  of  the  dog-wood  tree. 

With  marshes  flaunting  a  hundred  flags, 
While  every  delicate  cat-tail  wags, 

What  care  I  for  city  mews  ? 
Each  blossom  blows,  like  a  far-off  flute, 
And  the  wilder  flowers  their  pistils  shoot, 
While  all  the  trumpet-vines  tendrilly  toot, 

Earning  their  honest  dews. 
From  a  litter  of  leaves  comes  a  sound. 

Ah-me! 

The  shrill  bough-wow  of  the  dog-wood  tree. 
[123] 


A  BUNGLE-ODE 

There's  a  jingle  in  the  jungle, 

'Neath  the  juniper  and  pine, 
They  are  mangling  the  tangle 

Of  the  underbrush  and  vine; 
And  my  blood  is  all  a-tingle 

At  the  sound  of  blow  on  blow 
As  I  count  each  single  shingle 

On  my  bosky  bungalow. 


There's  a  jingle  in  the  jungle, 

I  am  counting  every  nail, 
And  my  mind  is  bungaloaded, 

Bungaloping  down  a  trail; 
And  I  dream  of  every  ingle 

Where  I  angle  at  my  ease, 
Naught  to  set  my  nerves  a-jingle,- 

I  may  bungle  all  I  please. 
[124] 


For  I  oft  get  bungalonely 

Mingling  'mid  the  human  drove, 
And  I  long  for  bungaloafing 

In  some  bungalotus  grove, 
In  a  cooling  bung'location 

Where  no  troubling  trails  intrude, 
'Neath  some  bungalowly  roof-tree 

In  east  bungalongitude. 

Oh,  I  think  with  bungaloathing 

Of  the  strangling  social  swim, 
Where  they  wrangle  after  bangles 

Or  for  some  new-fangled  whim; 
And  I  know  by  bungalogic 

That  is  all  my  bungalown, 
That  a  little  bungalotion 

Mendeth  every  mortal  moan! 

Oh,  a  man  that's  bungalonging 
For  the  dingle  and  the  loam, 

Is  a  very  bungalobster 
If  he  dangles  on  at  home. 
[125] 


Catch  the  bungalocomotive; 

If  you  cannot  face  the  fee, 
Why,  a  bungaloan  '11  do  it, — 

You  can  borrow  it  of  me! 


THE  OVER-DOING  OF  IT 

When  guileful  infants  mount  my  knee, 

And  try  if  I  be  grave  or  tickly, 
And  stroke  my  pate  and  fondle  me, 

And  spread  the  compliments  too  thickly: 
I  say  to  them,  "Aha! 
You  cannot  fool  your  Pa! 
What  must  I  pay  for  this  display  ? 

Come!     Tell  me  what  you're  after,  quickly.' 


When  I  was  but  a  little  lad, 

And  blandishments  would  only  bore  me, 
The  female  relatives  I  had 

Would  sometimes  suddenly  adore  me! 
And  then  I'd  think,  "Aha! 
I'm  younger  than  Papa, — 
But  I'm  so  wise  that  I  surmise 
You've  got  some  chores  and  errands  for  me.' 
[127] 


And  there's  a  man  you  meet  through  life, 

Who  in  your  presence  loves  to  utter 
Undue  endearments  toward  his  wife, 
As,  "Love — my  Life!     Pray  pass  the  butter." 
And  then  I  think,  "Aha! 
You  cannot  fool  your  Pa! 
When  I'm  away  you  change  your  lay 
And  doubtless  beat  her  with  a  shutter." 

If  now  and  then  my  dog  appears 

And  fawns,  and  yearns  to  lick  my  features, 
And  thumps  his  tail  and  droops  his  ears, 
With  glance  as  sinless  as  a  preacher's, 
I  say  to  him,  "Aha! 
You  cannot  fool  your  Pa! 
You've  chased  a  hen! — Don't  sin  again — 
And  don't  act  like  us  human  creatures." 


MR.  PITT'S  HOUSEHOLD  DISCOVERY 

"My  dear,"  said  Augustus  Adonirim  Pitt, 
"Tis  plain  to  us  both  that  our  cook  is  unfit. 
And  (pardon  my  slang)  we  must  give  her  the  mitt. 
But  ere  you  replace  her  I  beg  to  propose 
A  plan  whose  proportion  continu'ly  grows, 
Evolved  by  my  brain,  as  its  brilliancy  shows. 
I  have  sometimes  remarked  that  the  age  is  at  hand 
When  our  offsprings'  horizons  should  greatly  ex 
pand; 

They  should  broaden  their  minds  in  some  alien  land. 
To  which  you  have  always  made  gloomy  retort 
Regarding  finances — in  short,  that  I'm  short. 
If  barred  on  such  scores 
From  those  alien  shores 

I  propose  that  we  bring  them  instead  to  our  doors! 
Go  forth,  I  adjure  you,  take  time  by  the  hair, 
Discharge  Emma  Susan,  then  hasten  to  where 
Good  Mrs.  Intelligence  maketh  her  lair. 
[129] 


"  Bring  back,  if  you  can,  a  Castilian  retainer 
Who's  recently  come  from  some  city  in  Spain,  or 
From  Cuba,  where  Spanish  is  spoken  much  plainer. 
While  I  will  buy  books  in  the  mean  time  that  teach 
Us  Spanish  geography,  customs,  and  speech. 
Dear  wife,  even  now  in  my  mind's  eye  I  see 
Yourself  at  my  side  and  my  children  at  knee 
All  mentally  traveling  over  the  sea; 
While  a  servant  in  costume  reveals  what  the  soul  is 
Of  true  Spanish  life,  while  she  serves  our  frijoles. 
When  the  usual  month  for  a  servant  expires, 
Let  an  African  maiden  replenish  our  fires, 
And  deftly  prepare 
Some  odd  bill  of  fare 

While  our  thoughts  are  attuned  by  a  Zuluesque  air; 
The  boys  could  play  tom-toms,  while  I  would  anon 

g° 
And  ply  her  with  questions  regarding  the  Congo. 

"Ah,  madam,  I  picture  us  belting  the  world; 
Each  month  a  new  national  banner  unfurled, 
And,  in  our  minds'  eyes,  we  are  giddily  whirled 


Through  Ireland  and  Denmark  and  realms  Asiatic, 

While  all  of  us  master,  in  spirit  ecstatic, 

New  Hnguas  with  tongues  become  quite  acrobatic." 

In  the  eyes  of  his  spouse 

He  seemed  to  arouse 

A  mute  admiration;    she  sped  from  the  house. 

And  when  all  the  children  got  home  somewhat  later 

They  gladly  set  out  for  the  bookstores  with  Pater. 

It  hardly  befits 

My  pen  or  my  wits 

To  lay  very  bare  the  affairs  of  the  Pitts. 

Suffice  it  to  say 

They  began  from  that  day 

To  live  in  a  radical,  polyglot  way, 

While  curious  neighbors  remarked  that  a  Nemesis 

Seemed  monthly  to  smite  every  cook  on  the  premises. 

The  time  for  the  seventh  excursion  drew  near, 
When,  muffled  in  bed,  Mr.  Pitt  said:    "My  dear, 
This  traveling  injures  my  stomach,  I  fear. 
10  [  131  ] 


Chop-suey  and  rice 
I  regarded  as  nice, 

Though  oft  I  revolted  at  visions  of  mice; 
And  chicken  tomalis 
Prove  dangerous  follies 

When  everything  else  is  bedizened  with  spice. 
It  sickens  a  person,  no  matter  how  well  he 
Digests,  to  incessantly  eat  vermicelli. 
Hoe-cake,  I  admit, 
And  ham  on  a  split 

Were  good,  though  the  melons  upset  me  a  bit 
(That  dusky  South  African  proved  an  imposter 
From  Kalamazoo,  yet  I  grieved  when  we  lost  her). 
But  the  ultimate  straw  on  my  stomach  is  laid, 
I  very  much  fear,  by  this  Eskimo  maid; 
Of  all  the  procession  I  certainly  dub  her 
The  worst!  How  can  Christians  subsist  upon  blubber  ? 
And  ever  since  I 
Once  chanced  to  descry 

Her  drinking  the  oil  from  the  lamps  on  the  sly, 
I've  started  the  stove  every  morn  in  the  dark, 
Lest  she  should  explode  by  inhaling  a  spark. 
[132] 


I  fear  that  my  scheme,  although  brilliant,  was  crude 

On  its  practical  side,  in  the  matter  of  food. 

If  these  cooks  could  have  come,  say  in  batches  of 

three, 

Serving  alternate  meals,  you  can  readily  see 
How  much  less  destructive  the  diet  would  be; 
While  blubber  per  se  may  be  perfectly  wholesome, 
Yet  straight  for  a  month  it  will  sicken  your  soul  some. 
Unless  you  can  change  it  whenever  you  choose,  you'll 
Suffer  a  lot  from  a  diet  unusual! 

"But  this  food  question  ain't 

My  only  complaint — 

I've  troubles  enough  to  disgruntle  a  saint! 

For  after  my  children  and  I  have  spent  days 

On  Ollendorf,  Berlitz,  and  various  ways 

For  mastering  grammar  and  accent  and  phrase 

To  greet  each  new  maid  when  she  waited  on  table, 

It  always  transpired  we  were  wholly  unable 

To  get  through  her  head 

The  phrases  we'd  read, 

And  we  couldn't  translate  any  word  that  she  said. 

['33] 


Though  my  scheme  was  a  great  one,  I'm  forced  to 

admit 

That  something  was  wrong  in  the  practise  of  it. 
I  humbly  suggest  that  you  get  on  the  track 
Of  old  Emma  Susan  and  hurry  her  back. 
And  if  she  won't  stay 
In  the  usual  way 
Give  her  every  night  out  and  quadruple  her  pay." 

Two  morals  belong 

At  the  end  of  this  song: 

(1)  Don't  travel  unless  your  digestion  is  strong; 

and 

(2)  A  masculine  life 
With  sorrow  is  rife 

Unless  one  leaves  kitchen  affairs  to  one's  wife. 


YE  MORAL  TALE  OF  YE  PHYSICAL 
CULTURYST 

Young  Abel  was  a  childe,  I  wot, 
Whose  miene  was  grave  and  sage. 

'Twas  plaine  that  he  had  thought  a  lott 
Despyte  hys  tender  age. 

When  onlie  two,  much  tyme  he  spent 

On  physical  development. 

% 

Each  mormnge  when  he  gat  hym  uppe, 

He'd  give  a  merrie  shout, 
And  lyft  hys  small  St.  Bernard  puppe 

And  carrie  hym  about. 
Ye  dogge  was  verie  small  at  fyrst, 
But  ate  and  grew  lyke  he  would  burst. 

And  though  in  tyme  ye  friendlie  beast 
Grew  myghtie  bigge  and  talle, 
[135] 


It  irked  not  Abel  in  ye  leaste, 

It  was  so  graduawl. 

Ye  fulle-grown  dogge  younge  Abel  bore 
With  careless  ease  when  onlie  four. 

There  came  a  caulfe  upon  ye  farm, 
Quite  younge  and  lene  and  spare; 

Each  day  childe  Abel's  sturdie  arm 
Would  lyft  hym  highe  in  air. 

By  slow  degrees,  but  sure  as  fate, 

Ye  caulfe  grew  unto  cow's  estate. 

Before  ye  lad  attained  to  tenne, 

His  spirit  'gan  to  pant 
For  chaunce  to  fondle  now  and  thenne 

A  babie  elephant. 

And  when  a  friende  supplyed  ye  lacke, 
Younge  Abel  bore  it  on  hys  backe. 

Each  day  he  deftlie  held  aloft 
Ye  infante  pachyderme, 
[136] 


AND    LYFT    HYS    SMALL    ST.    BERNARD    PUPPE    AND    CARRIE 
HYM    ABOUT 


The  whyle  hys  spirit  onlie  scoffed 

To  feel  it  kyck  and  squirme. 
As  yere  by  yere  ye  creature  grew 
Stout  Abel's  cheste  expanded  too. 

I  but  record  ye  symple  facts, 

And  nowise  doe  implie 
That  Abel's  parents  viewed  hys  acts 

Wyth  a  complaisant  eye. 
But  chyldren  who  can  tosse  a  cow 
Are  chided  sparinglie,  I  trow. 

Thus  waxed  ye  muscle  on  thys  boy, 
As  grows  ye  coral  strande, 

And  yet  hys  manhood  gat  no  joy 
From  power  wythin  hys  hande. 

For  whenne  he  raised  a  windowe-sash 

Ye  everie  pane  was  sure  to  smashe. 

Whene'er  he  went  to  shutte  a  dore, 
And  used  noe  force  at  alle, 

He'd  pushe  ye  dore-sill  off  ye  flore, 
Ye  dore-frame  through  ye  walle. 

[139] 


And  if  he  pressed  a  ladle's  waiste, 
Ye  ambulance  must  come  in  haste. 

Hys  house  was  soone  a  broken  place, 
Hys  wyfe  were  earlie  dede; 

Despaire  was  writ  upon  hys  face, 
And  bowed  hys  myghtie  hede. 

Ye  moral  is,  that  oft,  my  son, 
Are  calysthenics  overdone. 


ELEGY  IN  A  CITY  BACKYARD 

Written  in  collaboration  with  Gelett  Burgess 

The  tea-bell  tolls  for  Nell  to  pass  the  tray, 
The  glowing  cook  winds  slowly  up  the  clock, 

The  ashman  homeward  wends  his  weary  way, 
And  leaves  a  trail  of  cinders  round  the  block. 

Now  fade  the  dingy  fences  on  our  sight, 
And  all  the  air  is  still,  except,  maybe, 

Where  some  street-organ,  faintly  through  the  night, 
Wafts  "Holy  City"  and  "The  Bamboo  Tree." 

Save  that  from  yonder  sparsely  slated  roof 
A  moping  Tom  doth  meaningly  complain 

(While  other  felines  darkly  hold  aloof) 
That  his  Maria  lucklessly  was  slain. 

Beneath  the  shade  yon  dying  pear-tree  sheds, 
Where  rest  tomato  cans  on  ashy  heaps, 
[Hi] 


Where  cast-off  corsets  line  the  pansy  beds, 
The  flattened  form  of  poor  Maria  sleeps. 

The  wheezy  call  of  milkmen  in  the  morn, 
The  cook's  insistent,  matutinal  grouch, 

The  scissors  grinder's  harsh  and  raucous  horn 
No  more  shall  rouse  her  from  her  weedy  couch. 

For  her  no  more  shall  wave  the  threatening  broom, 
Or  busy  housewife  scat  her  from  the  chair, 

No  children  run  to  chase  her  from  the  room, 
Or  pampered  dogs  besiege  her  in  her  lair. 

Oft  sought  she  out  appointed  rendezvous, 
In  dalliance  spent  the  fairest  of  her  days, 

Or  nightly  studied,  with  her  art  in  view, 
The  acoustic  properties  of  alleyways. 

Oft  did  the  predatory  cur  rejoice 

To  drive  her,  quivering,  up  this  lonely  tree; 
How  jocund  did  she  raise  nocturnal  voice! 

How  cursed  the  lodgers,  kept  awake  at  three! 


Let  not  some  groomed  lap-cat  e'er  decry 
The  humble  realm  of  that  backyard  obscure — 

The  battered  gate,  the  clothes-line  whence  there  fly 
The  short  and  simple  flannels  of  the  poor. 

The  boast  of  Tortoise-shell,  the  pomp  of  Manx, 
The  Persian,  bearing  pedigree  profound, 

All  dread  alike  the  catcher's  nimble  shanks — 
The  public  highways  lead  but  to  the  pound. 

Full  many  a  nightly  prowler,  gaunt  and  lean, 
Has  filled  this  alley  with  his  music  rare; 

Full  many  a  cat  is  born  to  howl  unseen 
And  waste  his  sweetness  on  the  city  air. 

Nor  you,  ye  proud,  impute  to  him  the  sin, 
Who  in  his  nightshirt  did  his  window  raise, 

And,  hurling  down  his  missile  at  the  din, 
Ended  the  joyance  of  her  heartfelt  lays! 

Returning  from  some  animated  bust, 

Back  to  his  mansion,  pale  and  sick  at  heart, 

[H3] 


Maria's  voice  provoked  his  latent  lust 
For  blood;    she  fell  a  victim  to  her  art. 

Perhaps  in  this  neglected  form  has  been 
A  soul  that  in  Bubastis  might  have  reigned; 

The  Goddess  Pasht  have  recognized  as  kin; 
Or  ruled  Kilkenny  ere  its  glory  waned. 

Far  from  the  madding  crowd  she  was  not  fazed, 
The  while  her  vagrom  fancies  made  her  stray 

Along  the  sequestered  alley,  where  she  raised 
The  nightly  noisy  tenor  of  her  lay. 

For  who,  to  grim  insomnia  a  prey, 
That  weird  elusive  being  e'er  could  mark  ? 

Who  has  not  raised  his  window  in  dismay 

And  blindly  cast  some  weapon  through  the  dark  ? 

Yet  on  some  pavement,  soon  or  late,  there  lies 
The  cat  who  tortures  slumber  while  she  prowls; 

While  from  the  tomb  the  voice  of  Nature  cries, 
As  some  small  urchin  imitates  her  howls. 
[H4] 


But  Requies  Cat,  now  that  she  is  dead 

(Nine  times  she  died,  and  therefore  quite  deceased) 

Approach  and  read  (with  friends  to  hold  thy  head) 
This  touching  tribute  to  the  little  beast. 


EPITAPH 


Here  lies  poor  Puss,  with  collar  unbedight, 
A  homeless  cat,  a  thing  of  skin  and  bone. 

Full-throated  rose  her  swan-song  on  the  night, 
And  now  the  dust-heap  claims  her  for  its  own. 


THE    END 


This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last 
date  stamped  below. 


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